A TRANSATLANTIC TUNNEL, HURRAH!

By

Harry Harrison

BOOK THE FIRST

THE LINK BETWEEN THE LANDS BEGUN

I. A HURRIED MESSAGE AND A DANGEROUS MOMENT

Leaving Paddington Station the Fly-ing Cornishman seemed little

differ-ent from any other train. Admittedly the appointments were cleaner
and newer and there was a certain opulence to the gold tassels that
fringed the seat cushions in the first-class carriage, but these were just a
matter of superficial decoration. The differ-ences that made this train
unique in England, which was the same as saying unique in the entire
world, were not yet apparent as the great golden engine nosed its way over
the maze of tracks and switches of the station yards, then out through the
tunnels and cuttings. Here the roadbed was ordinary and used by all
trains alike.

Only when the hulking locomotive and its trailing cylinder of closely

joined coaches had dived deep under the Thames and emerged in Surrey
did the real difference show. For now even the roadbed became un-usual,
a single track of continuously welded rails on specially cushioned sleepers
that was straighter and smoother than any track had ever been before,
sparkling in deep cut-tings that slashed a direct channel through the chalk
of the downs, shooting arrow-straight across the streams on stumpy iron
bridges, a no-nonsense rail line that changed direction only in the longest
and shallowest of curves. The reason for this became quickly apparent as
the acceleration of the train steadily in-creased until the nearby fields and
trees flashed by, visible as just the most instantaneous of green blurs; only
in the distance could details be picked out, but they, too, slipped
backwards and vanished almost as soon as they had appeared.

Albert Drigg had the entire com-partment to himself and he was very

glad of that. Although he knew that this train had made the return trip
from Penzance every day for almost a year now and had suffered no
mis-hap, he was aware of this only in the-ory, so that now experiencing it
in practice was a totally different mat-ter. From London to Penzance was
a total of two hundred eighty-two miles and that entire incredible
dis-tance would be covered in exactly two hours and five minutes—an
aver-age speed including stops of well in excess of one hundred fifty miles
per hour. Was man meant to go that fast?

Albert Drigg had a strong visceral sensation that he was not. Not even

in this year of Our Lord 1973, mod-ern and up to date though the Em-pire
was. Sitting so bolt upright in his black suit and black waistcoat that they
showed no wrinkles, his stiff white collar shining, his gleam-ing leather
portfolio on his knees, he generated no sign of his internal emotions. On
the rack above, his tightly rolled umbrella and black bowler indicated he
was a City man and men of the City of London are just not given to
expressing their innermost feelings in public. Never-theless he could not
suppress a slight start when the compartment door whisked open on silent
runners and a cheerful cockney voice addressed him.

“Tea, sir, tea?”

One hundred and fifty miles an hour—or more!—and the cup remained

in place on the ledge be-neath the window while the tea poured into it in a
steady stream.

“That will be thrupence, sir.”

Drigg took a sixpence from his pocket and passed it over to murmured

thanks, then instantly re-gretted his largesse as the door closed again. He
must be unnerved if he tipped in so magnanimous a man-ner, but he was
solaced by the fact that he could put it on the expense account since he
was traveling on company business. And the tea was good, freshly brewed
and hot, and did very much to soothe his nerves. A whiskey would do a lot
more he realized and he almost touched the electric button for the waiter
when he remembered the Saloon Car, of-ten seen in the pages of The
Taller and Pall Mall Gazette, but visited only by the very few. He finished
the tea and rose, tucking the extra length of chain back into his sleeve. It
both-ered him that the portfolio was ir-removably shackled to the cuff
about his wrist and indicated that he was something less than a complete
gen-tleman, but by careful maneuvering he could keep the chain from the
public view. The Saloon Car, that was the very thing!

The carpeting in the corridor was a deep gold in color making a subtle

contrast with the ruddy oiled gloss of the mahogany paneling. Drigg had
to pass through another coach to reach the Saloon Car, but there was no
need to struggle with recalcitrant doors as on an ordinary train for as he
approached some concealed de-vice detected his proximity and the doors
opened swiftly before him to the accompaniment of the hum of hidden
electric motors. Naturally he did not look through the com-partment
windows he passed, but out of the corners of his eyes he had quick
glimpses of finely dressed men and elegantly attired women, some
children sitting sedately, reading—then a sudden loud barking that
inadvertently drew his eye. Two coun-try gentlemen sat with their feet up,
emptying a bottle of port between them while a half dozen hounds of
various breeds and sizes milled about and sought after their atten-tion.
And then Drigg was at the Sa-loon Car.

No automatic devices here but the best of personal services. A grand

carved door with massive brass han-dles and a pillbox capped boy, his
double row of uniform buttons glint-ing and catching the eye, who
sa-luted and tugged at the handles.

“Welcome, sir,” he piped, “to the Grand Saloon Car of the London and

Land’s End Railway.”

Now that he saw it in its full splen-dor Drigg realized that the

news-paper photographs did not do the es-tablishment justice. There was
no feeling at all of being in a railway carriage, for the atmosphere was
rather that of an exceedingly ex-clusive club. One side contained
im-mense crystal windows, from floor to ceiling, framed by ruddy velvet
cur-tains, while arrayed before them were the tables where the clientele
could sit at their leisure and watch the rural countryside speeding by. The
long bar was opposite, massed with ranked bottles that reflected in the
fine cut glass mirror behind it.

There were windows to right and left of the bar, delicately constructed

stained glass windows through which the sun poured to throw shifting
col-ored patterns upon the carpet. No saints here, unless they be the saints
of railroading like Stephenson or Brunel, sturdy far-seeing men with
compasses and charts in hand. They were flanked by the engines of
his-tory with Captain Dick’s Puffer and the tiny Rocket on the left, then
progressing through history and time to the far right where the mighty
atomic powered Dreadnought ap-peared, the juggernaut of the rails that

pulled this very train.

Drigg sat by the window, his port-folio concealed beneath the table and

ordered his whiskey, sipping at it slowly while he enjoyed the gay
music-hall tune that a smiling musi-cian was playing on the organ at the
far end of the car.

This was indeed luxury and he relished every moment of it, already

seeing the dropping jaws and mute stares of respect when he told the lads
about it back at the King’s Head in Hampstead. Before he had as much as
finished his first drink the train was easing to a stop in Salis-bury, where
he looked on ap-provingly as a policeman appeared to chase from the
platform a goggl-ing lot of boys in school jackets who stood peering into
the car. His duty done the officer raised his hand in salute to the
occupants then rolled majestically and flatfootedly on about his official
affairs.

Once more The Flying Cor-nishman hurled itself down the track and

with his second whiskey Drigg ordered a plate of sandwiches, still eating
them at the only other stop, in Exeter, while they were scarcely done
before the train slowed for Penzance and he had to hurry back for his hat
and umbrella.

The guards were lined up beside the locomotive when he passed, burly,

no-nonsense looking soldiers of the Argyll and Sutherland High-landers,
elegant in their dark kilts and white gaiters, impressive in the steadiness
of their Lee-Enfield rifles with fixed bayonets. Behind them was the
massive golden bulk of the Dreadnought, the most singular and by far the
most powerful engine in the world. Despite the urgency of his mission
Drigg slowed, as did all the other passengers, unable calmly to pass the
gleaming length of her.

Black driving wheels as tall as his head, drive rods thicker than his legs

that emerged from swollen cylinders leaking white plumes of steam from
their exhausts. She was a little travel-stained about her lower works but all
her outer skin shone with the seam-less, imprisoned-sunlight glow of gold,
fourteen-karat gold plating, a king’s ransom on a machine this size.

But it wasn’t the gold the soldiers were here to guard, though that was

almost reason enough, but the pro-pulsive mechanism hidden within that
smooth, unbroken, smoke--stackless shell. An atomic reactor, the
government said, and little else, and kept its counsel. And guarded its

engine. Any of the states of Ger-many would give a year’s income for this
secret while spies had already been captured who, it was rumored, were in
the employ of the King of France. The soldiers sternly eyed the passersby
and Drigg hurried on.

The works offices were upstairs in the station building and a lift carried

him swiftly to the fourth floor. He was reaching for the door to the
ex-ecutive suite when it opened and a man emerged, a navvy from the look
of him, for who else but a railway navvy would wear such knee-high
hobnailed boots along with green corduroy trousers? His shirt was heavy
canvas and over it he wore a grim but still rainbow waistcoat, while
around his pillar-like neck was wrapped an even gaudier handker-chief.
He held the door but barred Drigg’s way, looking at him closely with his
pale blue eyes which were startlingly clear in the tanned nut-brown of his
face.

“You’re Mr. Drigg, aren’t you, sir?” he asked before the other could

protest. “I saw you here when they cut’t‘tape and at other official
func-tions of t’line.”

“If you please.”

The thick-chewed arm still pre-vented his entrance and there seemed

little he could do to move it.

“You wouldn’t know me, but I’m Fighting Jack, Captain Washington’s

head ganger, and if it’s the captain you want’t‘see he’s not here.”

“I do want to see him and it is a matter of some urgency.”

“That’ll be tonight then, after shift. Captain’s up’t‘the face. No vis-itors.

If you’ve messages in that bag, I’ll bring ’em up for you.”

“Impossible, I must deliver this in person.” Drigg took a key from his

waistcoat pocket and turned it in the lock of the portfolio then reached
in-side. There was a single linen en-velope there and he withdrew it just
enough for the other to see the golden crest on the flap. Fighting Jack
dropped his arm.

“The marquis?”

“None other.” Drigg could not keep a certain smug satisfaction from his

voice.

“Well, come along then. You’ll have to wear overalls, it’s mucky

up’t‘face.”

“The message must be delivered.”

There was a work train waiting for the head ganger, a stubby electric

en-gine drawing a single open car with boxes of supplies. It pulled out as
soon as they were aboard and they rode the footplate behind the
engi-neer. The track passed the town, cut through the fields, then dived
into a black tunnel where the only light was a weak glow from the
illumi-nated dials so that Drigg had to clutch for support fearful that he
would be tossed out into the jolting darkness. Then they were in the
sun-shine again and slowing down as they moved towards a second tunnel
mouth. It was far grander than the other with a facing of hewn granite
blocks and marble pillars that sup-ported a great lintel that had been done
in the Doric style. This was deeply carved with the words that still brought
a certain catch to Drigg’s throat, even after all his years with the company.

TRANSATLANTIC TUNNEL they read.

Transatlantic tunnel—what an am-bition! Less emotional men than he

had been caught by the magic of those words and, even though there was
scarcely more than a mile of tunnel behind this imposing façade, the thrill
was still there. Imagination led one on, plunging into the earth, diving
beneath the sea, rushing un-der those deep oceans of dark water for
thousands of miles to emerge into the sunlight again in the New World.

Lights moved by, slower and slower, until the work train stopped before

a concrete wall that sealed the tunnel like an immense plug.

“Last stop, follow me,” Fighting Jack called out and swung down to the

floor in a movement remarkably easy for a man his size. “Have you ever
been down t’tunnel before?”

“Never.” Drigg was ready enough to admit ignorance of this alien

envi-ronment. Men moved about and called to each other with strange
in-structions, fallen metal clanged and echoed from the arched tunnel
above them where unshielded lights hung to illuminate a Dante-ish scene
of strange machines, tracks and cars, nameless equipment. “Never!”

“Nothing to worry you, Mr. Drigg, safe as houses if you do the right

things at the right time. I’ve been working on the railways and the tunnels
all m’life and outside of a few split ribs, cracked skull, a broken leg and a
scar or two I’m fit as a fiddle. Now follow me.”

Supposedly reassured by these dubious references. Drigg followed the

ganger through a steel door set into the concrete bulkhead that was
instantly and noisily slammed shut behind them. They were in a small
room with benches down the middle and lockers on one wall. There was a
sudden hissing and the distant ham-mering of pumps and Drigg felt a
strange pressure on his ears. His look of sudden dismay was noticed by
Fighting Jack.

“Air, just compressed air, nothing more. And a miserable little twenty

pounds it is too I can tell you, as one who has worked under sixty and
more. You’ll never notice it once you’re inside. Here you go.” He pulled a
boiler suit from a locker and shook it out. “This is big enough to go over
your clothes. I’ll hold that wallet for you.”

“It is not removable.” Drigg shook out the length of chain for

inspection.

“No key?”

“I do not possess it.”

“Easily solved.”

The ganger produced an immense clasp knife with a swiftness and

economy of motion that showed he had had sudden use for it before, and
touched it so that a long gleam-ing blade shot out. He stepped forward
and Drigg backed away.

“Now there, sir, did you think I was going to amputate? Just going to

make a few sartorial alterations on this here garment.”

A single slash opened the sleeve from wrist to armpit and another

twitch of the blade vented the gar-ment’s side. Then the knife folded and
vanished into its usual resting place while Drigg drew on the mutilated
apparel, the portfolio easily passing through the rent cloth. When Drigg
had it on Fighting Jack cut up another boiler suit—he had a cavalier
regard for company property appar-ently—and bound it around the cut

sleeve to hold it shut. By the time this operation was completed the pumps
had stopped and another door at the far end of the airlock room opened
and the operator looked inside, touching his forehead when he saw Drigg’s
bowler.

A train of small hopper wagons was just emerging from a larger steel

door in the bulkhead and Fighting Jack pursed his lips to emit an
ear-hurting whistle. The driver of the squat electric locomotive turned at
the sound and cut his power.

“That’s One-eyed Conro,” Fight-ing Jack confided to Drigg. “Terrible

man in a dustup, thumbs ready all’t‘time. Trying to even the score you see
for the one he had gouged out.”

Conro glared out of his single red-dened eye until they had climbed up

beside him, then ground the train of wagons forward.

“And how’s the face?” Fighting Jack asked.

“Sand.” One-eyed Conro spat a globe of tobacco into the darkness. “Still

sand, sand. Loose at the top so Mr. Washington has dropped the pressure
so she won’t blow, so now there’s plenty of water at the bottom and all the
pumps are working.”

“‘Tis the air pressure you see,” Fighting Jack explained to Drigg as

though the messenger were inter-ested, which he was not. “We’re out
under’t’ocean here with ten, twenty fathoms of water over our heads and
that water trying to push down through the sand and get’t‘us all the time,
you see. So we raise the air pressure to keep it out. But seeing as how this
tunnel is thirty feet high there is a difference in the pressure from top to
bottom and that’s a problem. When we raise the pressure to keep things
all nice at’t’top, why then the water seeps in at’t‘bottom where the
pressure is lower and we’re like’t’swim. But, mind you, if we was to raise
the pressure so the water is kept out at’t‘bottom why then there is too
much pressure at’t’top and there is a possibility of blowing a hole right
through to the ocean bottom and letting all the wa-ters of the world down
upon our heads. But don’t you worry about it.”

Drigg could do nothing else. He found, that for some inexplicable

reason his hands were shaking so that he had to grip the chain about his
wrist tightly so it did not rattle. All too soon the train began to slow and
the end of the tunnel appeared clearly ahead. A hulking metal shield that

sealed off the workers from the virgin earth outside and enabled them to
attack it through door-like openings that pierced the steel. Drills were at
work above, whining and grumbling, while mechanical shovels below dug
at the displaced muck and loaded it into the waiting wagons. The scene
appeared dis-organized and frenzied, but even to Drigg’s untutored eye it
was quickly apparent that work was going for-ward in an orderly and
efficient manner. Fighting Jack climbed down and Drigg followed him,
over to the shield and up a flight of metal stairs to one of the openings.

“Stay here,” the ganger ordered. “I’ll bring him out.”

Drigg had not the slightest desire to go a step farther and wondered at

his loyalty to the company that had brought him this far. Close feet away
from him was the bare face of the soil through which the tunnel was being
driven.

Gray sand and hard clay. The shovels ripped into it and dropped it

down to the waiting machines below. There was something sinister and
frightening about the entire oper-ation and Drigg tore his gaze away to
follow Fighting Jack who was talk-ing to a tall man in khaki wearing
high-laced engineer’s boots. Only when he turned and Drigg saw that
classical nose in profile did he recog-nize Captain Augustine Washington.
He had seen him before only in the offices and at Board meetings and had
not associated that well-dressed gentleman with this burly engineer. But
of course, no toppers here…

It was something between a shout and a scream and everyone looked in

the same direction at the same in-stant. One of the navvies was pointing
at the face of dark sand before him that was puckering away from the
shield.

“Blowout!” someone shouted and Drigg had no idea what it meant

ex-cept he knew something terrible was happening. The scene was rapid,
confused, with men doing things and all the time the sand was moving
away until suddenly a hole a good two feet wide appeared with a great
sound like an immense whistle. A wind pulled at Drigg and his ears hurt
and to his horror he felt himself being drawn towards that gaping mouth.
He clung to the metal in pet-rified terror as he watched strong boards
being lifted from the shield by that wind and being sucked for-ward, to
splinter and break and van-ish into oblivion.

A navvy stumbled forward, lean-ing back against the suction, holding a

bale of straw up high in his strong arms. It was Fighting Jack, strug-gling
against the thing that had sud-denly appeared to destroy them all, and he
raised the bale which was sucked from his grasp even as he lifted it. It hit
the opening, was pressed flat, and hung there for an instant—then
disappeared.

Fighting Jack was staggering, reaching for support to pull himself back

to safety, his hand out to a steel bulkhead. His fingers were almost
touching it, tantalizingly close, but he could not reach it. With a bellow,
more of annoyance than fear, he rocked backwards, was lifted to his feet
and dragged headfirst into the opening.

For one, long, terrifying moment he stuck there, like a cork in a bottle,

just his kicking legs projecting into the tunnel.

Then he was gone and the air whistled and howled freely again.

II. A MOMENTOUS DECISION

All of the navvies, not to mention Albert Drigg, stood paralyzed by

horror at the swiftness of the tragedy. Even these strong men, used as they
were to a life of physical ef-fort and hardship, accidents and sudden
maiming, were appalled by the swiftness of the event. Only one man there
had the presence of mind to move, to act, to break the spell that bound all
of the others.

“To me,” Captain Washington shouted, jumping to a bulwark of

timbers that had been prepared for just this sort of emergency. Lengths of
thick boards that were bolted to stout timbers to make a doorlike shield
that stood as high as a man. It looked too heavy for one person to budge
yet Washington seized the edge and with a concerted contraction of all his
muscles dragged it forward a good two feet.

His action jolted the others into motion, rallying to him to seize the

construction and lift it and push it forward. The pressure of the air tore it
from their hands and slammed it against the face of the cutting, covering
the blowout opening at last. There was still the strong hiss of air pushing
through the cracks in the boards but the rushing torrent had now abated.
Under Washington’s in-structions they hurried to contain and seal off the
disaster. While above them, through the largest opening in the tunneling
shield, a strange machine appeared, pushed forward by smoothly powerful
hydraulic cylinders. It was not unlike a battleship gun turret, only in place

of the cannon there were four long tubes that ended in cutting heads.
These were placed against the sand above the blowout and instantly
be-gan revolving under the operator’s control. Drilling swiftly they sank
into the soft sand until the turret itself was flush against the face of the
cutting. As soon as this was done the drilling stopped and valves were
opened—and an instant frosting of ice appeared upon the turret.

While this was happening a brawny navvy with an ax had chopped a

hole in the center of the wooden shield just over the opening of the
blowout. The pressure was so strong that, when he holed through, the ax
was torn from his hands and vanished. He stumbled back, laugh-ing at the
incident and holding up his hands so his buddies could see the raw stripes
on his palms where the handle of the ax had been drawn from his tight
grip. No sooner had he stepped aside than the mouth of a thick hose was
placed over this new opening and a pump started to throb.

Within seconds the high-pitched whistle of the escaping air began to

die away. Ice now coated the for-merly wet sand through which the
blowout had occurred and a chilling wave of cold air passed over them all.
When the rushing wind had van-ished completely, Washington ordered
the pumping stopped and their ears sang in the sudden silence. The sound
of a bell drew their attention as Captain Washington spun the handle on
the field telephone.

“Put me through on the radio link to the boat at once.”

They all listened with a fierce in-tentness as contact was established

and Washington snapped the single word, “Report.” He listened and
nodded then called out to his intent audience.

“He is safe. Alive and well.”

They cheered and threw their caps into the air and only desisted when

he raised his hands for silence.

“They saw the blowout on the sur-face, blowing muck and spray forty

feet into the air when it first holed through. They went as close as they
dared to the rising bubbles then and were right on the spot when Fighting
Jack came by. Rose right up into the air, they said, and they had him
al-most as soon as he fell back. Uncon-scious and undamaged and when
he came to he was cursing even before he opened his eyes. Now back to
the job, men, we have twelve feet more to go today.”

As soon as the rhythm of the work had resumed, Captain Washington

turned to Drigg and put out his hand in a firm and muscular handshake.
“It is Mr. Drigg, isn’t it? The mar-quis’s private secretary?”

“Yes, sir, and Secretary of the Board as well.”

“You have caught us at a busy moment, Mr. Drigg, and I hope you were

not alarmed. There are certain inherent difficulties in tunneling but, as
you have seen, they are not insur-mountable if the correct precautions are
taken. There is a trough in the ocean bottom above us at this spot, I doubt
if more than five feet of sand separate us from the water. A blow-out is
always a possibility. But prompt plugging and the use of the Gowan
stabilizer quickly sealed the opening.”

“I’m afraid it is all beyond me,” said Drigg.

“Not at all. Simple mechanics.” There was a glint of true enthusiasm in

Captain Washington’s eye as he explained. “Since the sand is
water-soaked above us the compressed air we use to hold back the weight
of the water blew an opening right through to the sea bottom. The wooden
bar-ricade sealed the opening temporar-ily while the Gowan stabilizer
could be brought up. Those drills are hol-low and as soon as they were
driven home liquid nitrogen was pumped through them. This fluid has a
tem-perature of 345.5 degrees below zero and it instantly freezes
everything around it. The pipe you see there pumped in a slurry of mud
and wa-ter which froze solid and plugged the opening. We shall keep it
frozen while we tunnel past this dangerous area and seal it off with the
castiron sections of tunnel wall. All’s well that ends well—and so it has.”

“It has indeed, and for your head ganger as well. How fortunate the

boat was nearby.”

Washington looked at the other keenly before answering. “Not chance

at all as I am sure you know. I do believe the last letter from the directors
drawing my attention to the wasteful expense of maintaining the boat at
this station was over your sig-nature?”

“It was, sir, but it appeared there only as the drafter of the letter. I have

no responsibility in these mat-ters being just the vehicle of the directors’
wishes. But with your per-mission I shall give a complete report of what I
have seen today and will stress how a man’s life was saved because of your
foresight.”

“Just good engineering, Mr. Drigg.”

“Foresight, sir, I insist. Where you put a man’s life ahead of money. I

shall say just that and the matter will be laid to rest once and for all.”

Washington seemed slightly em-barrassed at the warmth in Drigg’s

voice and he quickly sought to change the subject.

“I have kept you waiting too long. It must have been a matter of some

importance that has brought you personally all this distance.”

“A communication, if you please.” Drigg unlocked the portfolio and

took out the single envelope it con-tained. Washington raised his eyebrows
slightly at the sight of the golden crest, then swiftly broke the seal and
read the letter.

“Are you aware of the contents of this letter?” asked Washington,

drawing the folded sheet of paper back and forth between his fingers.

“Only that the marquis wrote it himself and instructed me to facilitate

in every way your return to London on a matter of some impor-tance. We
will be leaving at once.”

“Must we? The first through connection on an up train is at nine and it

won’t arrive until the small hours.”

“On the contrary,” Drigg said, smiling. “A special run of The Flying

Cornishman has been arranged for your convenience and should be now
waiting.”

“It is that urgent then?”

“The utmost, his lordship im-pressed that upon me most strongly.”

“All right then, I will have to change…”

“Permit me to interrupt. I believe instructions were also sent to the

head porter of your hotel and a packed bag will be awaiting aboard the
train.”

Washington nodded acceptance; the decision had been made. He

turned about and raised his voice over the growing din. “Bullhead. You
will be head ganger here until Fighting Jack returns. Keep the work

moving.”

There was no more to be done. Washington led the way back through

the shield to the electric lo-comotive which he commandeered for the
return trip. They took it as far as the bulkhead and arrived just in time to
meet Fighting Jack emerging from the air-lock door.

“Damn me if I want to do that again,” he bellowed, his clothes still

dripping wet, bruises on his head and shoulders where he had been
dragged through the ocean bottom. “Like a cork in a bung I was, stuck
and thought it me last moments. Then up like a shot and everything
getting black and the next I know I’m looking up’t‘sky and at the faces of
some ugly sinners and wondering if I were’t’heaven or the other place.”

“You were born to be hanged,” said Washington calmly. “Back to the

face now and see they work the shift out without slackening.”

“I’ll do that and feed any man who shirks into a blowout and up the way

I went.”

He turned and stamped off while they entered the air lock and found

seats.

“Should he be working . .?” Drigg ventured after long minutes of

silence.

“He shouldn’t—but I cannot stop him. These navvies have a way of life

different from ours and we must respect it. If he’s hurt, or has the bends,
he would never admit it and the only way to get him to a hospital would be
to bash him over the head and he would never forgive me. I have seen
these men, on a dare, jump over the open mouth of a ven-tilation tunnel
ten feet wide and a hundred feet deep. I have seen three men in a row fail
and fall to their deaths and the fourth man, laughing, succeed. Then he
and all the others there go out and drink beer until they can no longer
walk in memory of their dead buddies. And no one regretting or worrying
about a thing. A hard and brutal life you might say, but, by God, it makes
men.”

As though ashamed of this emo-tional outburst, Washington kept his

counsel for the rest of the trip out of the tunnel, until they reached the
platform in Penzance. It was dark now with the last bars of red fading
from the clouds in the west. Lights were winking on all over the expanse of

tracks as the yardboys went about refilling the switch beacons with
paraffin and lighting their wicks. The crowds were gone, the station silent,
while the solitary form of the Dreadnought bulked even larger than life
with its newly polished golden cladding catching and hold-ing the red and
green of the switch lights. There were only two carriages attached, the
Saloon Car and Monarch of the Glens, the private coach used only by the
marquis or other members of the board of direc-tors: The porter for this
car, an el-derly white-haired man named Walker, formerly the butler of
one of the Board members, now retired to this sinecure in his advancing
years, was waiting at the steps to the car.

“Your bath is drawn, sir, and your clothing laid out.”

“Capital—but I must have a drink first. Join me if you will, Mr. Drigg, it

has been a long and hot day with more than enough excitement for a
month.”

“A pleasure.”

The gaudily uniformed boy was on the door to the Saloon Car, smiling

as he drew it open for him. Washington stopped short when he saw him.
“Should not this infant be in bed? Goodness knows we can open the door
ourselves on this spe-cial trip.”

The child’s face fell and his lower lip showed a tendency to wobble

be-fore Drigg spoke. “They are volun-teers all, Captain Washington, Billy
here along with the rest. They want to go, you must understand that.”

“Then go we shall,” Washington laughed and entered the car. “Send a

lemonade out to Billy and we will all have that drink.”

The organist looked over his shoulder, smiling out a fine display of gold

teeth, and enthusiastically played “Pack Up Your Troubles” as soon as they
entered. Washington sent him over a pint of beer then raised his own and
drained it in al-most a single swallow. The train slipped forward so
smoothly that they were scarcely aware that they were underway.

What with a few drinks and bath-ing and dressing the trip was over

al-most before Washington knew it. The platform at Paddington Station
was empty except for the shining eighteen foot long, six-doored, black
form of a Rolls-Royce waiting for them. The footman held the door, and as
soon as they were inside and he had joined the chauffeur they were in

motion again. Around Hyde Park and up Constitution Hill by Buckingham
Palace—windows all aglitter with a ball or some important function—and
within short minutes they were pulling up in front of Transatlantic House,
the company offices in Pall Mall. The front doors were held open and not a
word was spoken as Drigg led the way to the lift and up to the li-brary.
They stood there in the si-lence of morocco and dark wood until the porter
had closed the outer door, and only then did Drigg touch a hidden catch
on one of the shelves of books. An entire section of shelving opened like a
door and he pointed through it.

“His Lordship is waiting in his pri-vate office. He thought to have a

word with you alone before you go in to the Board. If you will.”
Wash-ington stepped forward while the se-cret doorway closed behind
him and another door opened before.

The marquis was writing at his desk and did not at first look up. This

was an elegant room, rich with silver and brass and heavy with an-cestral
portraits. Behind the marquis the curtains were open so the large bay
window framed the view across St. James’s Park with the tower of Big Ben
visible beyond. As it sol-emnly struck the hour the marquis laid down his
pen and waved Wash-ington to the nearby chair.

“It is a matter of some urgency,” said he, “or I would not have rushed

you away from your work in this cavalier manner.”

“I realized that from the tone of your note. But you did not say what the

matter was.”

“We’ll come to that in a moment. But I have asked you here, to see me

alone, on what, for lack of a better term, might be called a personal
matter.”

His lordship seemed ill at ease. He tented his fingers together before

him, then dropped them flat, rubbed at the wide jaw so typical of his line,
then turned about to look out the window, then swung about again.

“This is difficult to say, Captain Washington, and has to do with our

respective families. We have ances-tors, there might be ill will, don’t mean
to infer, but you understand.”

Washington did understand and felt some of the same embarrassment

as the marquis. He had lived with this burden all his life so was better able

to face it. Perhaps it would be best to have it out in the open than kept as
a guilty secret.

“What is past is past,” said he. “It is a matter of history and common

knowledge that the first Marquis Cornwallis executed my ancestor George
Washington as a traitor. I feel no shame at the fact, nor any personal
animosity towards you or your family, you may take my word on that. The
Battle of Lexington was fairly fought and fairly won and the Continental
Army defeated. The first marquis was a soldier and could do no more than
obey his orders, no matter how distasteful he found them personally. As
you know it was the king himself who ordered the ex-ecution. George
Washington was a traitor—but only because he lost. If he had won, he
would have been a patriot and he deserved to win be-cause his cause was a
just one.”

“I’m afraid I’m not so well read up on that period of history,” Cornwallis

said, looking down at his desk.

“You will excuse my out-spokenness, your lordship, but this is

something very close to me. Because of the revolt and the ill feelings that
followed after it in the American colonies we remain a colony to this day.
While others, Canada and Aus-tralia for example, have attained to full
independent dominion status within the Empire. You had better know
that I am active in the Inde-pendence movement and will do ev-erything I
can to hurry the day when Her Majesty will approve that status.”

“I could not agree more warmly, sir! As you undoubtedly know I am a

man of firm Tory persuasion and strongly back my party’s position that
dominion status be granted in the manner you say.”

He rose and pounded the desk soundly as he said this, then ex-tended

his hand to the other, a social grace he had chosen to ignore when
Washington had entered, undoubt-edly because of the delicate nature of
their familial relationship. Wash-ington could do no less so stood and
shook the hand firmly. They stood that way for a long moment then the
marquis dropped his eyes and re-leased Washington’s hand, coughing into
his fist to cover his embarrass-ment at this unexpected display of emotion.
But it had cleared the air for what was to come.

“We are upon difficult times with the tunnel, Washington, difficult

times,” said Cornwallis and his ex-pression became as difficult as the
times he alluded to with his forehead furrowed as a plowed field, the

cor-ners of his mouth drooping so far that his ample jowls fell an inch.
“This immense project has worn two faces since the very beginning and
the private face is the one I allude to now. I am sure that you have some
idea of the intricate financing of an enterprise this size but I do not think
you are aware of how political in na-ture the major considerations are. In
simple—this is a government project, a sort, of immense works program.
You are shocked to hear this?”

“I must admit, sir, that I am, at the minimum, surprised.”

“As well you might be. This coun-try and its mighty Empire are built

upon the sound notion that strong men lead while others follow, weak men
and inept corporations go to the wall, while the government and the crown
keeps its nose out of private affairs. Which is all well and good when the
economic weather is fair and the sun of the healthy pound beams down
upon us all. But there are clouds across the face of that sun now as I am
sure you are well aware. While the frontiers were ex-panding England
grew fat with the wealth of the East India Company, the Hudson’s Bay
Company, the Inca-Andean Company and all the others flowing our way.
But I am af-raid the last frontier has been pushed back to the final ocean
and a certain placidity has settled upon the world and its economy. When
businesses can no longer expand they tend to contract and this industrial
con-tractionism is rather self-perpetu-ating. Something had to be done to
stop it. More men on the dole every day, workhouses full, charities
stretched to the limit. Something, I say, had to be done. Something was
done.”

“Certain private businessmen, cer-tain great corporations, met in

cam-era and—with considerable reluc-tance I can assure you—decided
that the overall solution of the problem was beyond them. Learned
special-ists in the field of economics were drawn into the discussions and
at their insistence the still highly secret meetings were enlarged to include
a committee from the Parliament. It was then that the tunnel project was
first voiced, a project large enough to affect and stimulate the entire
econ-omy of both Britain and the Ameri-can colonies. Yet its very size was
its only drawback; not enough private capital could be raised to finance it.
It was then that the final, incredible step was taken. Crown financing
would be needed.” He lowered his voice unconsciously. “The Queen was
consulted.”

This was a revelation of a staggering nature, a secret of state so well

kept that Washington, privy as he was to the innermost operations of The
Transatlantic Tunnel Company, had not the slightest intimation of the
truth until this moment. He was stunned at first, then narrowed his eyes
in thought as he considered the ramifications. He was scarcely aware that
the marquis rose and poured them each a sherry from the cut crys-tal
decanter on the sideboard, though his fingers took it automat-ically and
raised it to his lips.

He finally spoke. “Can you tell me what is the degree of involvement of

the government?”

“In for a penny, in for a pound. Private investors have so far subscribed

about twelve percent of the needed sum. Her Majesty’s Govern-ment has
agreed to take eighty per-cent—but no more.”

“Then we are eight percent short of our goal?”

“Precisely.” The marquis paced the length of the room and back, his

hands clasped behind him and kneading one another. “I’ve had my doubts
from the beginning, God knows we have all had our doubts. But it was
Lord Keynes who had his way, Queen’s adviser, author of I don’t know how
many books on eco-nomics, ninety years if he is a day and still spry
enough to take on all comers. He had us all convinced, it sounded so good
when he told us how well it would work. Money in circulation, capital on
the move, healthy profits for investors, businesses expanding to meet the
needs for building the tunnel, employment all around, pay packets going
out to the small merchants, a healthy econ-omy.”

“All of those things could be true.”

“Damme, all those things will be true—if the whole thing doesn’t go

bust first. And it will go bust and things will be back to where they were, if
not worse, unless we can come up with the missing eight percent. And,
you will pardon my frankness, my boy, but it is your bloody fellow
colonials who are tug-ging back on the reins. You can help us there,
possibly only you can help us there. Without overexaggerating I can say
the fate of the tunnel de-pends upon you.”

“I will do whatever is needed, sir,” Washington said quietly and simply.

“You may count upon me.”

“I knew I could, or I would not have had you here. Forgive my bad

manners, it’s been a deucedly long day and more to come. We have an
agreement with your Colonial Con-gress and the Governor General—yes
they were consulted, too; your econ-omy shares the same debilitations as
ours—to match equally all monies raised by private investors in the
Americas. There has been but a trickle where we needed a flood. Radical
changes are needed. You, of course, know Rockefeller, chairman of the
American Board, and Macin-tosh, Brassey-Brunel’s agent in charge of the
construction at the American end. Both have agreed, in the course of the
greater good, that they will step down. The two posi-tions will be
combined into one and you will be nominated tonight to fill it.”

“Good God!” Washington gasped. “May He approve and be on our side.

Our first consideration was that the candidate be a good engineer, and
you are that. We know you will do the work. The second is that you are a
Colonial, one of their own people, so the operation has a defi-nite
American ring to it. I realize that there are some among the Tories who
hold your family name ana-thema, we must be frank, but I feel they are in
a minority. Our hope is that this appointment and your ef-forts will spur
the lagging sales of bonds that will permit the operation to continue. Will
you do it?”

“I gave my word, I will not with-draw it now. But there will be

difficulties…”

“A single difficulty, and you can put the name to it.”

“Sir Isambard. The design of the tunnel is all his, the very conception

indeed. I am just an employee carry-ing out his orders as is his agent
Macintosh, who is not even an engi-neer. If I am to assume this greater
responsibility, I will be something close to his equal in all matters. He is
not going to like it.”

“The understatement of the cen-tury, my boy. He has been sounded out

cautiously already with the pre-dictable results.” A light flashed on the
desk and was accompanied by a soft beeping sound. “The Board has
returned after their dinners and I must join them since no one is to know I
have seen you. If you will be so kind as to wait in the library, you will be
sent for. If matters go as we have planned, and they will since we have the
votes, you will be sent a note outlining these proposals and then called
before the Board. There is no other way.”

The door opened at a touch of a button on the desk and Washington

found himself back in the library.

There was a soft leather armchair there that he sank into gratefully and

when, a few minutes later, Drigg came to inquire if he needed anything he
was deep in thought and roused up only long enough to shake his head in
the negative. For this was without a doubt the pinnacle of his career—if
only he could scale it. Yes, he could, he had no doubts about that, had
been without doubts since he had left Mount Vernon for the last time,
waving good-bye to his mother and sister at the gate of the simple cottage
that was their ances-tral home. A cottage that had been built in the
shadow of the ivy-grown ruins of that greater house burnt by the Tory
mobs.

He was already an engineer then, graduated first in his class from

M.I.T. despite the dishonor attached to his name—or perhaps because of
it. Just as he had fought many a dark and silent battle with his fists
behind the dorms so had he fought that much harder contest in school to
stay ahead, to be better, fighting with both his fists and his mind to
restore honor to his family name. After graduation he had served his brief
stint in the Territorial Engineers—without the R.O.T.C. grant he would
never have finished college—and in doing so had enjoyed to its utmost his
first taste of working in the field.

There had been the usual troubles at the western frontier with the

Spanish colonies so that the Colonial authorities in New York had decided
that a military railroad was needed there. For one glorious year he had
surveyed rights of way through the impassable Rocky Mountains and
labored in the tunnels that were being driven through the intractable rock.
The experience had changed his life and he had known just what he
wanted from that time on. Along with the best minds from all the
far-flung schools of the Empire he had sat for the prestigious George
Ste-phenson scholarship at Edinburgh University and had triumphed.
Ac-ceptance had meant automatic en-trance into the higher echelons of
the great engineering firm of Brassey--Brunel and this, too, had come to
pass.

Edinburgh had been wonderful, despite the slightly curled lips of his

English classmates towards his colo-nial background, or perhaps because
of this. For the first time in his life he was among people who attached no
onus to his name; they could not be expected to remember the details of
every petty battle fought at the fringes of their Empire for the past four

hundred years. Washington was just another colonial to be classified with
Hindoos, Mohawks, Burmese, Aztecs and others and he reveled in this
group anonymity.

His rise had been brief and quick and now he was reaching the summit.

Beware lest he fall when his reach exceeded his grasp. No! He knew that
he could handle the engi-neering, drive the American end of the tunnel
just as he was driving the British one. And though he was aware that he
was no financier he also knew how to talk to the men with the money, to
explain just what would be done with their funds and how well invested
they would be. It would be Whig money he was after—though perhaps the
Tories would permit greed to rise above intoler-ance and would climb on
the band-wagon when they saw the others rid-ing merrily away towards
financial success.

Most important of all was the bearing this had upon a more important

factor. Deep down he nursed the unspoken ambition to clear his family
name. Unspoken since that day when he had blurted it out to his sis-ter
Martha and she had understood, when they had been no more than
children. Everything he accom-plished, in some manner, reflected on that
ambition, for what he accom-plished in his own name was also done in the
name of that noble man who had labored so hard for his country, who in
return for his efforts was felled by a volley of English bul-lets.

“Captain Washington, Captain Washington, sir.”

The voice penetrated the darkness of his thoughts and as it did he

real-ized he had been hearing it for some time and not heeding. He started
and took the envelope that Drigg held out to him, opened it and read it,
then read it a second time more slowly. It was as Lord Cornwallis had said,
the motion had been passed, he was being offered the post.

“If you will come with me, sir.”

He rose and brushed the wrinkles from his waistcoat and buttoned his

jacket. With the note still in his hand he followed the secretary to the
boardroom to stand at the foot of the long dark table. The room was silent,
all eyes upon him, as Cornwallis spoke from his place at the head of the
table.

“You have read and understood our communication, Captain

Washington?”

“I have, sir. It appears to be a request to fill, in a single capacity, the

dual positions now occupied by Sir Winthrop and Mr. Macintosh. You
indicate that these gentlemen approve of the change?”

“They do.”

“Then I am most pleased to ac-cept—with but one reservation be-fore I

do. I would like to know Sir lsambard’s feelings on the change.” It was the
waving of a red flag to a bull, the insulting of the Queen to a loyal
Englishman, the use of the word frog to a Frenchman. Sir Isambard
Brassey-Brunel was on his feet in the instant, leaning both fists hard on
the polished rosewood of the table, fire in his eye and white anger in the
flare of his nostril. A small man before whom, in his anger, large men
trembled, yet Washington was not trembling because perhaps he was not
the trembling type.

A study in opposites they were, one tall, one slight, one middle-aged

and smooth of skin whose great breadth of forehead grew greater with the
passing days, the other with a forehead of equal magnitude but with a face
browned and lined by sun and wind. A neatly turned out English
gentleman from the tips of his polished, handcrafted boots to the top of
his tonsured head—with a hundred guineas of impeccable Sav-ile Row
tailoring in between. A well-dressed Colonial whose clothes were first class
yet definitely provincial, like the serviceable and rugged boots intended
more for wear than show.

“You wish to know my feelings,” Sir Isambard said, “you wish to know

my feelings.” The words were spoken softly yet could be heard throughout
all of that great room and perhaps because of this gentleness of tone were
all the more ominous. “1 will tell you my feelings, sir, strong feelings that
they are, sir. I am against this appointment, com-pletely against it and
oppose it and that is the whole of it.”

“Well then,” Washington said, seating himself in the chair placed there

for his convenience, “that is all there is to it. I cannot accept the
ap-pointment.”

Now the silence was absolute and if a silence could be said to be

stunned this one certainly was. Sir lsambard was deflated by the answer,
his anger stripped from him, and as anger, like air from a balloon, leaked
from him he also sank slowly back into his seat.

“But you have accepted,” Corn-wallis said, baffled, speaking for all of

them.

“I accepted because I assumed the Board was unanimous in its

decision. What is proposed is a major change. I cannot consider it if the
man by whom I am employed, the master ar-chitect of this construction,
the lead-ing engineer and contractor in the world, is against it. I cannot,
in all truth, fly in the face of a decision like that.”

All eyes were now upon Sir Isam-bard whose face was certainly a study

worth recording in its rapid changes of expression that reflected the
calculations of the mighty brain behind it. First anger, giving way to
surprise, followed by the crinkling forehead of cogitation and then the
blankness of conclusion ending with a ghost of a smile that came and went
as swiftly as a passing shadow.

“Well said, young Washington; how does it go? You shall not speak ill of

me, I am your friend, faithful and just upon you. I detect the quality of
your classical education. The burden of decision now rests upon my
shoulders alone and I shall not shirk it. I have the feeling that you know
more of these matters than you intimate; you have been spoken to or you
would not be so bold. But so be it. The tunnel must go through and to have
a tunnel we apparently have to have you. I withdraw my ob-jections. You
are a good enough en-gineer I must admit and if you fol-low orders and
build the tunnel to my design we will build well.”

He reached out his small, strong hand to take up a glass of water, the

strongest spirit he ever allowed him-self, while something like a cheer
echoed from all sides. The chair-man’s gavel banged through the uproar,
the meeting was concluded, the decision made, the work would go on. Sir
Isambard waited stolidly to one side while the members of the Board
congratulated Washington and each other and only when the engineer was
free did he step to his side.

“You will share a cab with me.” It was something between a request

and a command.

“My pleasure.”

They went down in the lift to-gether in silence and the porter opened

the door for them and whis-tled for a cab. It was a hansom cab, two
wheeled, high, black and sleek, the driver perched above with the reins

through his fingers, these same reins leading down to one of the
newfangled conversions that were slowly removing the presence of the
horse from central London. Here there was no proud, high-stepping
equine frame between the shafts, but instead a squat engine of some sort
whose black metal, bricklike form rested upon three wheels. The single
front wheel swiveled at a tug upon the reins bringing the hansom up
smartly to the curb, while a tug on another rein stopped the power so it
glided to a halt.

“An improvement,” Sir Isambard said as they climbed in. “The horse

has been the bane of this city, drop-pings, disease, but no more. His
replacement is quiet and smoothly electric powered with no noise or
noxious exhaust like the first steam models, batteries in the boot—you will
have noticed the wires on the shafts. Close that trap because it is private,
no eavesdropping we want.”

This last was addressed to the round and gloomy face of the cabby who

peered down through the open-ing from above like a misplaced ruddy
moon.

“Begging your pardon, your honor, but I’ve not heard the destination.‘

“One hundred and eight Maida Vale.” The slam of the hatch added

punctuation to his words and he turned to Washington. “If you had
supposed you were returning with me to my home dispel yourself of the
idea at once.”

“I had thought…”

“You thought wrong. I wished only to talk with you in private. In any

case Iris is at some sort of theological tom-foolery at Albert Hall this
evening so we can be spared any scenes. She is my only daughter and she
obeys me when she must, but she also shares my views of the world. When
I explain to her that you have joined with my antago-nists on the Board to
deprive me of my full responsibilities, that you now may wish to obtain my
position for your-self—”

“Sir!”

“Be quiet. This is a lecture, not a discussion. That you have taken the

position occupied by one of my agents and have completely turned against
me. When I tell her those things she will understand at once why I will bar

my house from you in the future and she will return your ring to your club
by messenger in the morning. We will continue our busi-ness relationship
because there is no other way. But your engagement to my daughter is
broken, you are no longer welcome in my home, and you will make no
attempts, now or in the future, to contact Iris.” He knocked loudly on the
hatch with the head of his cane. “Stop the cab. Good-bye.”

III. THE ROYAL ALBERT HALL

A fine rain was falling, darkening even more the black pavement of

Kensington Gore so that each yellow gaslight above had its mirror

imaged fellow beaming back at it from the street below The doors to the
hall were closed, the street empty save for a single figure that appeared
sud-denly around the corner, a gentle-man in a hurry and heedless of the
inclemencies of the weather, his hat and clothes bedewed with raindrops.
Taking the steps two at a time he threw open one of the outer doors of the
hall and came face to face with the ample uniformed figure of the
commissionaire who prevented any further forward motion by the sheer
bulk of his presence.

“Performance begun, sir. Every-one seated.”

“I wish to talk to someone in the audience,” said Washington while at

the same time forcing himself into some form of composure, realizing that
his sudden appearance out of the night might be misinterpreted. “It is a
matter of some urgency—I’ll purchase a ticket if necessary.”

“Dreadfully sorry, sir. Ticket win-dow closed.”

Washington already had his purse in his hand as these words were

spo-ken which led naturally to a further and hopefully more successful
at-tempt at entry. He slipped two half crowns into the man’s hand.

“Are you sure there is no way? Perhaps I could just step inside and look

around for my party?” There was a glint of silver that although instantly
vanished still seemed to work a miraculous change on the door-keeper’s
manner, for he stepped back and waved entrance with his hand.

“Perfectly understandable, sir. Walk this way.”

The door closed silently behind his back and Washington looked

around the partially tilled hall. In the darkness he could make only the fact
that the audience seemed to be almost completely female and he
wondered how he could possibly single out one singular and important
female from all the others. They were listening in rapt silence to a small
man with a gray and black skullcap who stood behind the lec-tern on the
platform. Behind him, incongruously enough, there was a red plush divan
upon which lay a rather fat and ordinary looking woman who was either
unconscious, or sleeping. The juxtaposition of this strangely matched pair
was so arrest-ing that, with no opportunity at the moment for seeking out
Iris from the audience, despite himself, Washing-ton found himself
listening to the speaker.

“…Have heard what Madame Clotilda has said, spoken the name

Martin Alhaja Gontran, almost, in the understanding of her experience,
shouted this name signifying the im-portance of said name. This relates to
what I have spoken of earlier in the outlining of my theory of the
multi-serial nature of time. There are these points in time which I have
named alpha-nodes, and it is upon the existence of these alpha-nodes that
my theory depends. If they exist, my theory has some validity and may be
explored; if they do not exist then time flows on like a river, a single
mighty stream, instead of the multibranching, parallel rivulets that I
postulate. If the alpha-nodes are not there then I am wrong.”

“Hear, hear,” Washington said un-der his breath, searching for a

singular dark and lovely head among all the rows of possibly dark and
lovely heads before him.

“The search for a major alpha-node has taken years and Madame

Clotilda is the first clairvoyant to have made contact, so difficult is the
task. At first, with the greatest diffi-culty, she spoke the single word
Gon-tran and I searched long and deep for the meaning. I thought I had
found the correct reference and tonight before you it has been re-vealed
that I was correct for when I said Martin she supplied the missing third
part. Alhaja! The name, the all important complete name that pinpoints
with exactitude our alpha-node. Martin Alhaja Gontran.

“Let me tell you who he was, this unimportant little man, this illiterate

shepherd who held the creation of an entire world in the palm of his
cracked and calloused hand. I ask you to consider the date the six-teenth
of July in the year 1212. The scene is the Iberian peninsula and a mighty
battle is in preparation be-tween the Christian and the Moslim forces.

They lie under arms in their separate camps, the watchfires burn low, they
gather their strength for the battle of the morrow. But all are not asleep.
This shepherd, this Mar-tin Alhaja Gontran, has spoken to a friend about
what he has planned to do and the friend has spoken to cer-tain others
and Gontran is appre-hended by the Moors. These were uncivilized times
and men did wreak pain and suffering upon their fellow men of a sort that
I will not speak for the gentle ears of the members of the fairer inclination
among my audience.

Suffice to say Gontran spoke be-fore he died, and revealed the fact that

he had planned to lead Chris-tian troops that night by secret and
unguarded paths that he knew of, being a shepherd, that would bring
them behind the Muslim lines. He died and this was not done. Now I ask
you to consider what might have happened if he had succeeded in his
plan. It is very possible that the Christians instead of the Muslims might
have won the battle of Navas de Tolosa the following day, possibly the
most decisive battle of the pe-riod.

I ask you to speculate further. If they had won they might have gone on

to further victories and the Ibe-rian Peninsula might be another Christian
country like France or Prussia, instead of being Muslim and part of the
Greater Caliphate. Of what importance to us is this distant part of the
continent you may ask, and I answer of the utmost because cause is linked
inviably to event. Cause and event. With Christian rulers in Iberia…“

Behind him on the platform the sturdy form of Madame Clotilda began

to stir and move while from her throat there came a sound some-where
between a sigh and a muffled gasp. The greater part of the au-dience
gasped in echo and stirred as well so that Dr. Mendoza had to raise his
hands for silence.

“It is fine, it is normal, do not dis-turb yourself I beg of you. See, the

physician is here now, waiting ready in the wings in case of need. The
strain upon the system is great for a clairvoyant and sometimes… ha-ha,
there is a little reaction which is quickly taken care of. See, the curtains
close, the doctor is at her side, all will be well. I ask the houselights to be
raised, I will return in a mo-ment after a small intermission dur-ing which
you will hear a recording of an Eskimo ritual chant I myself recorded in a
winter camp of these hardy indigenees north of the Arctic Circle while
determining the basic relationship of diurnal time to Circa-dian rhythms
so important to the foundations of the alpha-node the-ory. I thank you.”

With these words the lights came on and the little doctor, after a brief

struggle to find the opening in the curtain, vanished from sight while their
ears were assaulted by an in-human and high-pitched wailing mixed with
a dull thudding. Wash-ington seized the unexpected oppor-tunity and
hurried down the aisle searching the audience for that cer-tain face.

And there she was, in the second row, just in from the aisle, dark hair

drawn back and held sweetly by a golden clasp, features perfect for she
was indeed a startling beauty whom the newspaper photographers loved
to find at balls. Her lips were as full and red without the touch of artifice
as any other girl’s after labor at the paintpot. As always he was without
words when he first looked at her, filled with happi-ness to be in her
presence. But she must have felt his eyes upon her for she glanced up and
her startled expression broke into a smile of such warmth that, if possible,
his powers of speech were removed even farther from accessi-bility.

“Why Gus, here! What a pleasant surprise.” He smiled in response,

ca-pable of nothing more coherent. “Have you met Joyce Boardman? I
don’t think you have, she’s just home from the far East. Joyce, my fiancé.
Captain Augustine Washington.”

He took the offered hand, bow-ing slightly, vaguely aware of an

attractive female presence, nothing more. “A pleasure. Iris, I hate to break
in like this but I’ve just come up from Cornwall and I’ll be going back in
the morning. Would it be possible to see you now, to talk to you?”

Other words were on her lips but she must have detected something

unusual in his manner, or his voice, for she changed them before she
spoke, and when she did so it was with a firm decisiveness unusual in a
girl just past twenty.

“Of course. Madame Clotilda’s fainting spell seems to have interrupted

matters and if the doctor does speak again Joyce can tell me all about it
tomorrow. That will be all right with you, won’t it, Joyce dear?” Joyce dear
had little chance to an-swer, or protest, because Iris went on in a rush of
words perhaps to fore-stall any utterance of this type. “That’s so kind of
you. When the car comes tell them I’ve already gone home by cab.”

Then she was on his arm and they were going up the aisle. While the

commissionaire was calling a cab Washington realized that the issue had
to be faced at once.

“Before the cab comes I must tell you—your father and I have had a

difference of opinion.”

“The easiest thing in the world to do. I am at it all the time. Poor Daddy

is certainly the firmest minded man in the world.”

“I’m afraid this is more serious. He has forbidden me the house and,

this is even harder to say, does not want us to see each other ever again.”

She was silent in thought for a long moment and the happy smile slowly

vanished from her face. But she held his arm no less tightly for which he
loved her, if it were pos-sible, ever much the more.

“Then we shall talk about it and you must tell me everything that has

happened. We’ll go—let me see—to the lounge in the Great Western Ho-tel
at Paddington. It’s on the way home and I remember you liked the tea and
cakes there.”

In the privacy of the cab, while they crossed the rain-filled darkness of

Hyde Park, he told her what had happened. Told her everything except the
irrelevant details of his con-fidential talk with Cornwallis, ex-plained why
the appointment was being made and how important it was both to the
company and to him, then closed by repeating almost word for word the
final and decisive conversation with her father. When he had finished they
were already at the hotel and there was nothing more that could be said
until they had climbed the grand staircase and been seated, ordered the
tea and cakes, and it must be admitted a double brandy for him since he
felt greatly in need of one, and the si-lence lasted until the tea had been
poured.

“This is a terrible thing to have happen, Gus, a terrible thing.”

“You don’t think your father is right, do you?”

“I don’t have to think whether he is right or not, I only have to

remem-ber that he is my father.”

“Iris, darling, you can’t mean that! You’re a girl of the Twentieth

Cen-tury, not a Victorian shadow of a woman. You have the vote now, or
at least you will next year when you are of age, women have a freedom
under Elizabeth they never knew be-fore.”

“We do, and I know it, and I do love you, dear Gus. But this cannot do

away with my family ties. And you said it yourself, I have not attained my
majority, nor will I for six months, and I still remain in my fa-ther’s
house.”

“You can’t mean—”

“But I do, and it hurts me to have to say it. Until you and Daddy resolve

this terrible thing that has come between you I have only one thing I must
do. Gus, darling Gus, I really have no choice.”

There was a gasp and a welter of emotion in the last words she spoke,

while a tear brimmed from the cor-ner of each eye as she took the ring
from the finger of her left hand and put it into his palm.

IV. ABOARD THE AIRSHIP

What a glorious June day it was. Ex-citement filled the streets of

South-ampton and washed like breaking waves along her docks. The
weather smiled as did the people, calling out to one another, drifting by
twos and threes down towards the waterfront and the rapidly approaching
hour of noon. Gay bunting and bright flags snapped in the offshore breeze
while small boats scudded over the placid surface of the harbor like water
bugs. A sudden sense of urgency came unto the strollers and they moved
faster when a train’s whistle sounded from the hills. The boat train from
London; the passengers were here!

The echo of the whistle drew Gus Washington from the well of his work,

away from the blueprints, charts, diagrams, figures, plans, devices,
pounds, dollars and worries that snapped up at him out of the welter of
papers he had spread about the train compartment. He pinched at the
bridge of his nose where a persistent pain of fatigue nibbled him, then
rubbed his sore eyes. He had been doing a good deal, some would say too
much, but it was just a great amount of work that could not be avoided.
Well enough for the mo-ment. The tracks curved down towards the docks
and he folded the scattered papers and documents and put them back into
his bulging case, a sturdy, no-nonsense, heavy-strapped and brass-buckled
case of horsehide, pinto pony hide to be ex-act with the gay white and
brown pattern of the hair still there, a pony he had once ridden and ridden
well to a good cause in the Far West, but that is another story altogether.
Now as he filled the case and sealed it the train rattled across the points
and out along the quay and he had his first sight of the Queen Elizabeth

tied up at her berth ahead.

This was a sight for sore eyes that rendered them pain-free upon the

instant. This was a marvel of engi-neering, of technical skill and daring
the like of which the world had never seen before. So white she glistened in
the sun, her bow pressed against the wharf and her distant stern far out in
the stream. The gang-plank reached up to the foredeck where a Union
Jack flew proudly from a flagstaff. Out, far out, to both sides stretched the
immense wings, white and wide, with the impressive bulk of the engines
slung beneath them. Four to each side, eight in all, each with a
four-bladed propeller, each blade of which was taller than a man. The
Queen Elizabeth, pride of the Cunard Line, the grandest and most glorious
flying ship in exis-tence.

For six months she had been fly-ing with her select crew, around the

world, showing the flag in every ocean and on the shores of almost every
land. If there had been any difficulties at all during this trial period the
company had kept them a close secret. Now her extended prov-ing flight
was over and she would begin the run for which she had been designed,
the prestigious North At-lantic route of the Queens, South-ampton to New
York nonstop, three thousand miles or more. Nor was it any accident that
Gus Washington was on this flight, a simple engineer who ranked almost
at the foot of the passenger list, overshadowed by the dukes and lords, the
moguls of in-dustry, the handful of European no-bility and the great, titled
actor. One hundred passengers only and at least ten or a hundred
applicants for every berth.

There had been pressure in high places, quiet chats over port at certain

clubs, discreet telephone calls. The affairs of the tunnel affected both high
finance and the court and both were in agreement that every-thing must
be done to encourage the American financial cooperation in the venture.
Washington must go to the colonies, so let him go in the most fitting
manner, a style that guaranteed the maximum publicity for the trip.

The maiden voyage of the flying ship was opportunity knocking.

Op-portunity that was admitted even be-fore she rapped, although it
meant that Gus had to pack a fortnight’s work into five days. It was done,
he was ready, the voyage was at hand. He sealed his case and opened the
compartment door and joined the other passengers on the platform. There
were not many and he held back so they could go ahead to the pop of
flashbulbs and the click of the press cameras. Not all had come by train;

the barrier that held back the swelling crowd was opened to admit two
automobiles, high, black, pon-derous Rolls-Royces. As it began to close
behind them there was an im-perious blast of a steam whistle from the
street beyond and it hurriedly opened again to admit the extended form of
a Skoda Steamer, a vehicle much favored by European royalty. It had six
wheels, the rear driving pair almost twice the size of the two others, as
well as a cabin to the rear that housed the engine and the sto-ker. It
emitted a plume of steam again as its whistle sounded and it eased silently
by trailing a faint cloud of smoke, the stately figures inside framed by the
silver mounted window frames looking neither to right nor left. This was
indeed a day to be remembered.

Further along the platform the station café was open, frequented

apparently only by the press since the passengers appeared to be going
directly aboard. Gus had a won-derfully cooling pint of bitter before he
was recognized and collared by the gentlemen of the fourth estate. He
talked with them easily and an-swered their questions about the tun-nel
frankly. Everything was fine, just fine, on schedule and forging ahead. The
tunnel would be built, have no fear. They honored his request not to be
photographed with the glass in his hand, since teetotal money was among
the funds subscribed for the tunnel, and they accepted with thanks his
offer of a round for all of them. The voyage was having an auspicious start.

When he emerged into the sun-light again the gangplank was clear and

the passengers all boarded. Gus in turn climbed to the foredeck and
accepted the salute of the ship’s offi-cer waiting there, a salute that
hesi-tated and stopped halfway up from the sharply creased uniform leg to
the shining billed cap and turned suddenly into an outstretched hand
ready to clasp his.

“Hawkeye Washington—that is you!”

The clock of time rolled back in that instant and Gus was once more in

digs at Edinburgh, in class, facing the driving rain while walking up
Prince’s Street. Hawkeye—legendary hero of a popular novel whose name
was hung on most students from the American colonies. He smiled
broadly and took the proffered hand and pressed it strongly.

“Alec, and that is you, isn’t it, hid-ing behind all that R.A.F.

moustache? Alec Durell.”

“None other, Hawkeye, none other. And it was earned the hard way I

must say,” touching the great sweep of the thing with his knuckle as he
spoke of it. “Donkey’s years in the RAF, then Fleet Air Arm, finally to
Cunard when they swept the ser-vices for our best flying people.”

“Still shy I see?”

“As ever. Lovely to have you aboard. Look, come on to the bridge and

meet the boys. I’m first engineer. They’re a good lot. All ex-services, only
place the company could find the fliers to handle an ark like this. Not a
real company man in the pack if you don’t count the purser and he isn’t
allowed on the bridge.”

They went aft but bypassed the passenger entrance just below the high

windows of the bridge and en-tered through a small doorway in the hull
marked CREW ONLY. This led to an ample chamber, windowed to the
sides and front and filled with in-struments and controls. The helms-man
was seated the farthest forward, with the captain and the first officer to
his right and left. To the rear were the open doors of the small cubicles of
the radio operator and the navigator. The walls were teak paneled, the
fascia for the instruments of walnut and chrome, while the floor was
cov-ered wall to wall in a fine Wilton car-pet. All of the positions were
vacant at the moment other than that of the helmsman on duty who sat,
staring dutifully ahead, with his fingers resting lightly on the spokes of his
steering wheel.

“Officers all below,” said Alec. “Chatting up the first class passengers as

always. Praise be I have my engines to look after so I don’t have to join
them. I say, let me show you around the engine room, I think, you’ll enjoy
that. Just bung your case into nay’s tubby, all the room in the world in
there.”

The navigator might not think so; the room was scarcely larger than a

phone box and Gus had trouble finding a free corner for his case. Then
Alec opened a hatch and led him down a spiral staircase to the forehold
where longshoremen were putting aboard the last of the luggage, suitcases
and great steamer trunks, lashing them into place with netting. A narrow
walkway was left that they followed down the length of the vessel towards
the stern.

“Passenger deck is one deck up but we can avoid them by going this

way.” Voices could be heard dimly above them accompanied by the lively
strains of a merrily playing band.

“It sounds like a ten-piece brass band up there—don’t tell me you ship

all of them along, too?”

“Only in the ethereal sense, tape recordings you know. Have to watch

the gross weight, the ruddy thing runs over one hundred tons before she
gets airborne.”

“I seem to have noticed little con-cern for weight up until now.”

“You can say that again—or tell it to the Board of Governors if you will.

In the Cunard tradition, they in-sist. If we stripped off all the chrome and
brass and teak we could get an-other hundred passengers aboard.”

“Though not in the same comfort. Perhaps they want quality not

quan-tity?”

“There is that. Not my worry. Here we go, into this lift, a tight fit for

two so try to think small.” It op-erated automatically; the door closed and
they rose smoothly at the touch of the button. “Wing is right on top of the
body and this saves a climb.”

They emerged inside a low-ceilinged passage that ran transverse to the

length of the ship, with heavy doors sealing each end, knobs and indicator
lights set into their frames. The engineer turned right and actuated the
controls so the door there swung open to disclose a small room little
bigger than the lift they had just quitted.

“Air lock,” he said as the door be-hind them closed and another before

them opened. “No point in pressur-izing the engine rooms so we do this
instead. Welcome to the portside en-gine room of the Queen Elizabeth
where I rule supreme.”

This rule was instantly challenged by a rating in a soiled white

boilersuit who saluted indifferently then shook his thumb gloomily over
his shoulder.

“Still at it, sir, fueling, topping up the bunkers they say.”

“My orders were to have it done by ten.”

“And that I’ve told them, sir,” spo-ken with such an air of infinite

sad-ness as though all the woes of the ages rode the man’s thin shoulders.

“Well, they’ll hear them again,” said the engineer and added a score of

colorful oaths that indicated both his military as well as his nautical
background. He stamped over to a large hinged plate in the floor,
unlocked the handles that secured it and threw it open. The water was a
good twenty feet below as he seized the edge of the opening and popped
his head and half of his upper body down through it so he hung upside
down. “Ahoy the barge,” he bel-lowed.

Gus knelt at the opposite side where he had a perfect view of the

proceedings. A hulking barge with a pumping station at one end was tied
up against the hull of the Queen Elizabeth. Great pipes snaked up from it
to valves inset in the ship’s side, the last of which was even then being
disconnected. As it came away a great burst of black coal dust sul-lied the
side of the leviathan of the air and the first engineer’s comments
entertained an even more colorful content. But as soon as all the pipes
were away and the valves sealed, hoses were brought into play and within
moments the hull was pristine again.

Alec pulled himself back inside with a victorious gleam in his eye—then

sprang forward to the engine room telegraph as its bell rang twice and the
brass indicator arm moved all around the face then returned to warm
engines.

“Port, one,” Alec called out. “Bu-tane inlet valves.”

“Aye, aye,” the rating answered and the two men were instantly

involved in the complex task.

Gus knew the theory of course, but he had never seen one of these giant

engines in operation before. He was aware that each of the hulking
turboprop engines, only a fraction of which protruded up through the
bottom of the wing that was the floor here, produced 5,700 horsepower.
First butane was admit-ted as an electric motor started the great shaft
spinning with a muffled roar. Now the burning gas spun the turbine
blades, faster and faster, un-til the desired temperature and pressures had
been reached.

Alec tapped a dial and seemed sat-isfied, so he cut off the butane flow

while at the same instant turned on the pump that blew the tiny particles
of pulverized coal into the engine, where it burnt instantly and hotly. The
great machine trembled and rumbled with restrained power as he
adjusted the controls so it idled smoothly.

“I’ll be down here until well after we’re airborne, still have to fire up the

starboard lot. Why don’t you go back to the bridge, I’ll phone through and
tell them you are on the way up.”

“Surely that would be an inter-ference?”

“Not a bit of it. For every question you ask about this airborne Moby

Dick they’ll have a dozen about your transatlantic pipe. Get along now.”

The engineer was not far wrong for the captain himself, Wing

Commander Mason, met Gus and in-sisted he remain. The bridge was
quiet, commands were issued in a restrained manner and obeyed with
alacrity, so it appeared that all the excitement was outside. The dockside
crowd was waving and cheering, boat whistles blowing, until just on the
stroke of midday the lines were cast off and the tugs nosed the pon-derous
airship away from the shore and out into the channel. Mason, who was
young for a Cunard captain but who had grown a full beard to fit the
accepted image, was proud of his charge.

“Waterline weight 198,000 pounds, Mr. Washington, 240 feet from

stem to stern, 72 feet from the bottom of the step to the lookout’s position
top of the central tail fin. An exercise in superlatives, and all of them
truthful I must admit. We have a 2,000 horsepower turbine in the tail
that does nothing more than pump air for the boundary layer control and
deflected, slipstream, in-creases our lift to triple that of an or-dinary wing.
Why we’ll be airborne at 50 miles an hour and inside 400 feet.
Spray-suppressor grooves on both sides of the hull keep down the flying
scud and smooth the sea for us. Now, if you will excuse me.”

The tugs cast off, the helmsman spun the wheel to line the ship up for

the takeoff, then disengaged his con-trols so the captain had command.
Hooting police boats had cleared the harbor of small craft. Steadying the
airborne tiller with his left hand the captain rang for full ahead with his
right. A faint vibration in the deck could be felt as the turbines howled up
to top speed and the Queen Eliza-beth slipped forward over the water,
faster and faster. The transition was so smooth that there was no
dis-tinction between being waterborne and airborne. In fact the very
pres-ence of this juggernaut of the air-ways was so solid and reassuring
that it appeared as though instead of the ship rising the city outside had
dropped away from them, shrinking at the same time to the size of a
model, then tipping on its side as the ship began a slow turn to the west.
Below them now the Isle of Wight slipped by, an unimportant green scrap

of flotsam in the sparkling ocean, then they were out over the Channel
with England contracting and vanishing under their starboard wing. Gus
picked up his case and slipped below, happy to have shared this moment
of triumph with these furrowers of a new and dimension-less sea.

A short corridor led aft to the Grand Saloon where the passengers were

seeing and being seen. They sat at the tables, admired the view from the
great circular ports, and gave the bar a brisk business. The room was not
as spacious as its title indicated but the dark, curved ceiling gave an
illusion of size with its twinkling stars and drifting clouds projected there
by some hidden device.

Gus worked his way through the crowd until he caught the eye of a

porter who led him to his cabin. It was tiny but complete and he dropped
into the armchair with re-lief and rested, looking out of the porthole for a
while. His bags that were labeled cabin were there and he knew that there
were other papers in them that he should attend to. But for the moment
he sat quietly, ad-miring the simplicity and beauty of the cabin’s
construction—it was an original Picasso lithograph on the wall—and the
way the chair and desk would fold and vanish at night so the bunk could
be opened. Eventually he yawned, stretched, opened his collar, opened his
case and set to work.

When the gong sounded for lun-cheon he ignored it but sent instead for

a pint of draught Guinness and a plowman’s lunch of bread, cheese, and
pickles. On this simple fare he labored well and by the time the gong
sounded again, this time for dinner, he was more than willing to put his
work away and join his fel-low man. Even though it was a fellow woman
who shared his table at the first seating, a lady of advanced years, very
rich though of lowly an-tecedents. Both of these could be read easily into
her jewelry and her vowels so that, eating swiftly, Gus returned to his
cabin.

During his absence his bed had been opened and turned back, an

electric hotwater bottle slipped be-tween the sheets since the cabins were
cooled to a refreshing sleeping temperature, and his pajamas lain across
the pillow. Ten o’clock by his watch but—he spun it ahead five hours to
New York time—they would be roused deucedly early. Three hundred
miles an hour, a fifteen-hour flight—it might be a ten a.m. arrival local
time but it would be five a.m. to his metabolism so he deter-mined to get
as much rest as pos-sible. It was going to be a hectic day, week, month,

year—hectic forever. Not that he minded. The tunnel was worth it, worth
anything. He yawned, slipped between the covers and turned off the light.
He left the portable curtains open so he could watch the stars moving by
in stately splendor before he went to sleep.

The next sensation was one of struggling, drowning, not being able to

breathe, dying, pinned down. He thrashed wildly, fighting against the
unbreakable bands that bound him, trying to call out but finding his nose
and mouth were covered.

It was not a dream. He had never smelled anything in a dream before,

never had his nose assaulted in this manner, never had it been clogged
with the cloying sweetness of ether.

In that instant he was wide awake, completely awake, and catching his

breath, holding it, not breathing. In the Far West he had helped the
sur-geon many times, poured the ether into the cone on a wounded man’s
face, and had learned to hold his breath against the escaping, dizzying
fumes. He did that now, not knowing what was happening but knowing
that if he breathed in as much as one breath more he would lose
con-sciousness.

There was no light but as he struggled he became aware that at least

two men were leaning their full weight on him, holding him down.
Something cold was being fastened on his wrists while something else
prisoned his ankles at the same time. Now the heavy figures simply held
him while he writhed, keeping the ether rag to his face, waiting for him to
subside.

It was torture. He fought on as long as he could before letting his

struggles cease, went past the time where he wanted to breathe to the
point where he needed to breathe to the excruciating, horrifying moment
where he thought if he did not breathe he would die. With an al-most
self-destroying effort he passed this point as well and was sinking into a
darker blackness when he felt the cloth being removed from his face at
last.

First he breathed out the residual fouled air in his lungs, clearing his

nostrils, and then, ever so slowly, despite the crying needs of his
demanding body, he let a quiet trickle of air back into his lungs. Even as
he did this he felt strong hands seize and lift him and carry him to the
door which was opened a crack, then thrown wide so they could carry him

through. There were dim night lights in the corridor and he slitted his
eyes so they would appear closed and let his body remain completely limp
despite the battering of the doorjamb as they rushed him through.

There was no one else in sight, no one to cry out to if that might have

done any good. Just two men dressed completely in black with black
gloves and black goggled masks over their faces that bulged out below.
Two men, two rough strangers, hur-rying him where?

To a waiting lift that streamed bright light when the door opened so

that he closed his eyes at once. But he had recognized it, the lift from the
hold up to the engine rooms that he had been in with the first engineer.
What did this mean? He was jammed in, prevented from falling by the
two assailants who pushed in with him so they rose silently in close,
hoarse-breathing contact—while not a word was spoken. In a matter of
less than a minute these two savage men had seized and bound him,
theoretically rendered him unconscious and were now tak-ing him some
place with surely no good purpose.

The answer was quick in coming. The port engine room; they were

re-tracing his visit of that morning. Into the air lock, close the one door
while the other opened—to the accom-panying snakelike hissing of an
ex-haust valve.

There was still nothing that Wash-ington could do. If he struggled he

would be rendered unconscious, for good this time. Though his nerves
cried out for action, something to break this silence and captivity, he did
nothing. His head was light by the time the inner door opened because he
had breathed as deeply as he could, hyperventilating his blood, getting as
much oxygen into his bloodstream as he could. Because beyond the door
was the unpres-surized part of the flying ship where the air was just as
thin as the 12,000 foot high atmosphere outside. Where a man simply
breathed himself into gray unconsciousness and death. Was that what
they had in mind? Would they leave him here to die? But why, who were
they, what did they want?

They wanted to kill him. He knew that as soon as they dropped him to

the cold metal of the deck and wres-tled with the handles of the doorway
beside him, the same one that Alec Durell had gone through in
South-ampton. But there he had a fall of twenty-five feet to an unwanted
bath. Here there were 12,000 feet of fall to brutal death.

With a heave the door was thrown open and the three-hundred mile an

hour slipstream tore through the opening, drowning out even the roar of
the four great engines. It was then that Washington did what he knew he
had to do.

He straightened his bent legs so they caught the nearest man behind

the knees. For a brief instant the dark stranger hung there, arms flail-ing
wildly before vanishing through the opening into the frigid night outside.

Gus did not wait until the other had gone but was wriggling across the

floor to the alarm of a fire box, struggling to his feet and butting at it with
his head until he felt the glass break and slice into his skin. Turning to
face the remaining man, swaying as he did so.

There is no warning to anoxia, simply a slide into unconsciousness then

death. He had the single thought that the bulbous mask must contain an
oxygen tank or his assail-ant would be falling, too. He must stay awake.
Fight. Unconscious, he would be dragged to the opening and dispatched
into the night like the other man.

His eyes closed and he slid slowly down and sprawled, oblivious, on the

deck.

V. A PAID ASSASSIN

“A fine sunny morning, sir, bit of cloud about but nothing to really

speak of.”

The steward flicked back the cur-tain so that a beam of molten sunlight

struck into the cabin. With pro-fessional skill he pulled open the drawer
on the night table and put the tray with the cup of tea upon it. At the
same time he dropped the ship’s newspaper onto Washington’s chest so
that he awoke and blinked his eyes open just as the door closed silently
behind the man. He yawned as the paper drew his attention so that he
glanced through the head-lines. HUNDREDS FEARED DEAD IN
PERUVIAN EARTH-QUAKE. SHELLING REPORTED AGAIN ALONG
THE RHINE.

NEW YORK CITY WELCOMES CAESAR CHAVEZ. The paper was

prepared at the line’s offices in New York, he knew that, then sent by
ra-diocopy to the airship. The tea was strong and good and he had slept
well. Yet there was a sensation of something amiss, a stiffness on the side

of his face and he had just touched it and found a bandage there when the
door was thrown open and a short, round man dressed in black and
wearing a dog collar was projected through the doorway like a human
cannonball, with Wing Commander Mason close behind him.

“Oh my goodness, goodness gracious,” said the spherical man, clasping

and unclasping his fingers, touching the heavy crucifix he wore about his
neck, then tapping the stethoscope he wore over it as though unsure
whether God or Aesculapius would be of most help. “Goodness! I meant to
tell the stew-ard, dozed off, thousand pardons. Best you rest, sure of that,
sleep the mender—for you not me, of course. May I?” Even as he spoke the
last he touched Gus’s lower eyelid with a gentle finger and pulled it down,
peering inside with no less concern and awe than he would have if the
owner’s eternal soul had rested there.

From confusion Gus’s thoughts skipped instantly to dismay, followed

thereafter by a sensation of fear that sent his heart bounding and brought
an instant beading of per-spiration to his brow. “Then it was no dream, no
nightmare,” he breathed aloud. “It really hap-pened.”

The ship’s commander closed the door behind him and, once secrecy

was assured, he nodded gravely.

“It did indeed, Captain Washing-ton. Though as to what happened we

cannot be sure and it is my fondest wish that you enlighten me, if you can,
as soon as possible. I can tell you only that the fire alarm sounded in the
port engine room at 0011 hours Greenwich Mean Time. The first engineer,
who was attending an engine in the starboard engine room at the time,
responded instantly. He reports he found you alone and un-conscious on
the deck, dressed as you are now, with lacerations on your face, lying
directly below the fire alarm. Pieces of glass in your wounds indicate you
set off the alarm with your head and this was necessitated by the fact that
your an-kles and wrists were secured by handcuffs. An access door in the
deck nearby was open. That is all we know. The engineer, who was
wear-ing breathing equipment, gave you his oxygen and pulled you from
the room. The Bishop of Botswana, this gentleman here, who is a
physician, was called and he treated you. The manacles were cut from you
and, un-der the bishop’s direction, you were permitted to sleep. That is all
we know. I hope that you will be able to tell us more.”

“I can,” Gus said, and his voice was hoarse. The two intent men then

saw his calm, almost uncomprehend-ing expression change to one that

ap-peared to be that of utter despair, so profound that the priestly
physician sprang forward with a cry only to be restrained by the raised
hand of his patient who waved him back, at the same time drawing in a
deep breath that had the hollow quality of a moan of pain, then exhaling it
in what could only be a shuddering sigh.

“I remember now,” he said. “I re-member everything. I have killed a

man.”

There was absolute silence as he spoke, haltingly at first as he

attempted to describe his confusion upon awakening in distress, faster
and faster as he remembered the struggle in the dark, the capture, the last
awful moments when another had vanished into eternity and the
possibility of his own death had overwhelmed him. When he had done
there were tears in the bishop’s eyes, for he was a gentle man who had led
a sheltered life and was a stranger to violence, while next to him the
captain’s eyes held no tears but instead a look of grim understanding.

“You should not blame yourself, there should be no remorse,” Wing

Commander Mason said, almost in the tones of a command. “The
attempted crime is unspeakable. That you fought against it in self-defense
is to be commended not condemned. Had I been in the same place I hope
my strength of endeavor and courage would have permitted me to do the
same.”

“But it was I, not you, Captain. It is something I shall never forget, it is

a scar I shall always carry.”

“You cannot blame yourself,” said the bishop, at the same time

fumbling for his watch and Gus’s wrist in sudden memory of his medical
ca-pacity.

“It is not a matter of blame but rather one of realization. I have done a

terrible thing and the fact that it appears to be justified makes it none the
less terrible.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” said Wing Commander Mason, a little gruffly,

tugging at his beard at the same time. “But I am afraid we must carry this
investigation somewhat further. Do you know who the men were—and
what their possible motive might be?”

“I am as mystified as you. I have no enemies I know of.”

“Did you note any distinguishing characteristics of either of them?

Some tone of voice or color of hair?”

“Nothing. They were dressed in black, masked, wore gloves, did not

speak but went about this business in complete silence.”

“Fiends!” the bishop cried, so car-ried away in his emotions that he

crossed himself with his stethoscope.

“But, wait, wait, the memory is there if I can only grasp it. Something,

yes—a mark, blue, perhaps a tattoo of some kind. One of the men, it was
on his wrist, almost under my nose where he held me, revealed when his
glove moved away from his jacket, on the inner side of his wrist. I can
remember no details, just blue of some kind.”

“Which man?” asked the captain. “The survivor or the other?”

“That I don’t know. You can un-derstand this was not my first

concern.”

“Indeed. Then there is a fifty-fifty chance that the man is still

aboard—if he did not follow his accomplice through the opening. But by
what excuse can we examine the wrists of the passengers? The crew
members are well known to us but—” He was silent on the instant, struck
by some thought that darkened his face and brought upon it a certain
grimness unremarked before. When he spoke again it was in the tones of
absolute command.

“Captain Washington, please re-main here quietly. The doctor will tend

your needs and I ask you to do as he directs. I will be back quite soon.”

He was gone without any more ex-planation and before they could

request one. The bishop examined Washington more thoroughly,
pronounced him fit, though exhausted, and recommended a soothing
draught which was refused kindly but firmly. Washington for his part lay
quietly, his face set, thinking of what he had done and of what his future
life might be like with a crime of this magnitude in his memory. He would
have to accept it, he realized that, and learn to live with it. In the minutes
that he lay there, before the door opened again, he had matured and
grown measurably older so that it was almost a new individual who looked
up when the captain entered for the second time. There was a bustle
behind him as the first engi-neer, Alec, and the second officer came in,

each holding firmly to the white-clad arm of a cook.

He could be nothing else, a tall and solid man all in white, chef’s hat

rising high on his head, sallow skinned and neat moustachioed with a look
of perplexity on his features. As soon as the door had been closed, the tiny
cabin was crowded to suffo-cation with this mixed company, the captain
spoke.

“This is Jacques, our cook, who has served with this ship since her

commissioning and has been with the Cunard ten years or more. He
knows nothing of the events of last night and is concerned now only with
the croissants he left to burn in the oven. But he has served me many
times at table and I do recall one thing.”

In a single swift motion the cap-tain seized the cook’s right arm,

turning it outwards and pulling back his coat. There, on the inside of his
forearm and startlingly clear against the paleness of his skin, was a blue
tattoo of anchors and ropes, trellised flowers and recumbent mermaids.
Washington saw it and saw more as memory clothed the man with black
instead of white, felt the strength of gloved hands again and heard the
hoarseness of his breathing. Despite the bishop’s attempt to prevent him
he rose from the bed and stood fac-ing the man, his face mere inches away
from the other’s.

“This is the one. This is the man who attempted to kill me.”

For long seconds the shocked ex-pression remained on the cook’s

fea-tures, a study in alarm, confusion, searching his accuser’s face for
meaning while Washington stared grimly and unswervingly into the
other’s eyes as though he were prob-ing his soul. Then the two officers who
held the man felt his arms tremble, felt his entire body begin to shake as
despair seized him and re-placed all else, so that instead of restraining
him they found they had to support him, and when the first words broke
from his lips they re-leased a torrent of others that could not be stopped.

“Yes, I… I was there, but I was forced, not by choice, dear God as a

witness not by choice. Sucre Dieu! And remember, you fell unconscious, I
could have done as I had been bid, you could not have re-sisted, I saved
your life, left you there. Do not let them take mine, I beg of you, it was not
by choice that I did any of this—”

In his release it all came out, the wretched man’s history since he had

first set foot in England twenty years previously, as well as what his fate
had been since. An illegal emigre, helped by friends to escape the grinding
unemployment of Paris, friends who eventually turned out to be less than
friends, none other than secret agents of the French crown. It was a simple
device, commonly used, and it never failed. A request for aid that could
not be refused—or he would be revealed to the English authorities and
jailed, deported. Then more and more things to do while a record was kept
of each, and they were illegal for the most part, until he was bound
securely in a web of blackmail. Once trapped in the net he was rarely used
after that, a sleeper as it is called in the filthy trade, resting like an
inactivated bomb in the bosom of the country that had given him a home,
ready to be sparked into ignition at any time. And then the flame.

An order, a meeting, a passenger on this ship, threats and humiliations

as well as the revelation that his fam-ily remaining in France would be in
jeopardy if he dared refuse. He could not. The midnight meeting and the
horrible events that fol-lowed. Then the final terrible mo-ment when the
agent had gone and he knew that he could not commit this crime by
himself.

Washington listened and under-stood, and it was at his instruction that

the broken man was taken away—because he understood only too well. It
was later, scant minutes before the flying ship began her final approach to
the Narrows and a landing in New York Harbor that the captain brought
Washington the fi-nal report.

“The other man is the real mys-tery, though it appears he was not

French. A professional at this sort of thing, no papers in his luggage, no
makers’ marks on his clothes, an ab-solute blank. But he was British,
ev-eryone who spoke to him is sure of that, and had great influence or he
would not be aboard this flight. All the details have been sent to Scot-land
Yard and the New York Police are standing by now at the dock. It is
indeed a mystery. You have no idea who your enemies might be?”

Washington sealed his last bag and dropped wearily into the chair.

“I give you my word, Captain, that until last night I had no idea I had

any enemies, certainly none who could work in liaison with the French
secret service and hire under-ground operatives.” He smiled wryly. “But I
know it now. I certainly know it now.”

VI. IN THE LION’S DEN

A truck had gone out of control on Third Avenue and, after caroming

from one of the elevated railway pil-lars, mounting the curb and breaking
off a water hydrant, it had turned on its side and spilled its cargo out into
the street. This consisted of many bundles of varicolored cloth which had
split and spread a gay bunting in all directions. The workings of chance
had determined that the site of the accident could not have been better
chosen for the machinations of mischief, or more ill chosen for the
preserving of law and order, for the event had occurred directly in front of
an Iroquois bar and grill.

The occupants of the bar now poured into the street to see the fun,

whooping happily through the streaming water and tearing at the bundles
to see what they contained. Most of the copper-skinned men were bare
above the waist, it being a warm summer day, clad only in leg-gings and
moccasins below with per-haps a headband and feather above. They
pulled out great streamers of the cloth and wrapped it about themselves
and laughed uproari-ously while the dazed truck driver hung out of the
window of his cab above and shook his fist at them.

The fun would have ended with this and there would have been no great

mischief done if this estab-lishment, The Laughing Water, had not been
located just two doorways away from Clancy’s, a drinking pal-ace of the
same order that drew its custom solely from men of Hiber-nean ancestry.
This juxtaposition had caused much anguish to the po-lice and the peace
of the area in the past and was sure to do so in the fu-ture, and in fact
promised to accom-plish the same results now in the present.

The Irishmen, hearing the ex-citement, also came out into the street

and stood making comments and pointing and perhaps envying the
natural exuberance of the In-dians‘. The results were predictable and
within the minute someone had been tripped, a loud name had been
called, blows exchanged and a gen-eral melee resulted. The Iroquois,
forced by law to check tomahawks and scalping knives at the city limits, or
leave them at home if they were residents, found a ready substitute in the
table knives from the grill. The Irish, equally restricted in the public
display of shillelaghs, and black-thorn sticks above a certain weight, found
bottles and chair legs a work-able substitute and joined the fray. War
whoops mixed with the names of saints and the Holy Family as they
clashed.

There were no deaths or serious maimings, since the object of the

ex-ercise was pleasure, but there were certainly broken heads and bones
and at least one scalp taken, the to-ken scalp of a bit of skin and hair. The
roar of a passing el train drowned the happy cries and when it had
rumbled into oblivion police si-rens took its place. Spectators stood at a
respectable distance and enjoyed the scene while barrow merchants, quick
to seize the opportunity, plied the edge of the crowd selling refresh-ments.
It was all quite enjoyable.

Ian Macintosh found it highly ob-jectionable, not the sort of thing at all

that one would ever see on the streets of Campbelltown, or in
Machrihanish. People who gave Highlanders a bad name for fighting and
carousing ought to see the Col-anies first. He sniffed loudly, an act easily
done since his sniffer was a monolithic prow seemingly designed for that
or some more important function. It was the dominating ele-ment of
Macintosh’s features, nay of his entire body for he was slight and narrow
and dressed all in gray as he thought this only properly fitting, and his
hair was gray while even his skin, when not exposed to the ele-ments for
too long a time, also par-took of that neutral color. So it was his nose that
dominated and due to its prominence, and to his eager at-tention to
details and to book-keeping, his nickname of “Nosey” might seem to be
deserved, though it was never spoken before his face, or rather before his
nose.

Now he hurried by on Forty-sec-ond Street, crossing Third Avenue and

sniffing one parting sniff in the direction of the melee. He pressed on
through the throng, dodging skillfully even as he drew out his pocket
watch and consulted it. On time, of course, on time. He was never late.
Even for so distasteful a meeting as this one. What must be done must be
done. He sniffed again as he pushed open the door of the Commodore
Hotel, quickly before the functionary stationed there could reach it,
driving him back with an-other sniff in case he should be seek-ing a
gratuity for a service not per-formed. It was exactly two o’clock when he
entered and he took some grudging pleasure from the fact that
Washington was already there. They shook hands, for they had met often
before, and Macintosh saw for the first time the bandages on the side of‘
the other’s face that had been turned away from him until then. Gus was
aware of the object of the other’s attention and spoke before the question
could be asked.

“A recent development, Ian. I’ll tell you in the cab.”

“No cab. Sir Winthrop is sending his own car, as well he might, though

it’s no pleasure riding in a thing that color.”

“A car need not necessarily be black,” Gus said, amused, as they went

up the steps to the elevated Park Avenue entrance where the elongated
yellow form of the Cord Landau was waiting. Its chrome exhausts
gleamed, the wire wheels shone, the chauffeur held the door for them.
Once inside, with the con-necting window closed, Gus explained what had
happened on the airship. “And that’s the all of it,” he concluded. “The cook
knows noth-ing more and the police do not know the identity of his
accomplice, or who might have employed him.”

Macintosh snorted loudly, a strik-ing sound in so small an enclosure,

then patted his nose as though com-mending it for a good performance.
“They know who did it and we know who did it, though proving it is
an-other matter.”

“But I’m sure I don’t know.” Gus was startled by the revelation. “You’re

an engineer, Augustine, and more of an engineer than I’ll ever be, but
you’ve had your head buried in the tunnel and you’ve no‘ been watching
the business end, or the Stock Exchange, or the Bourse.”

“I don’t follow.”

“Then try this if you will. If some-one tries hurting you it is time to see

whom you might have been hurting, too. People who might have a lot of
money but might see their shares slipping a wee bit. People who look to
the future and see them slipping a good deal more and intend to do
something about it now. People with contacts on an international level
who can reach the right people in the Sarete who are always willing to
jump at a chance to make mischief for Britain. And who might they be?”

“I have no idea.”

“You’re being naive, you are!” Macintosh laid his finger along his nose,

which hid this digit and a good part of his hand as well, in a conspiratorial
gesture. “Now I ask you, if we be under the water, who be over it?”

“Airships, but the tunnel offers them no competition. And ships upon

the ocean, but—” His voice stopped and his features wore a startled look.
Macintosh smiled a wintry smile in return.

“No names, no pack drill, and the culprits will be hard to find I

warrant. But a command may be spo-ken, half in jest perhaps—and I ask
you to remember Thomas Becket!—an order relayed, an order given, an
ambitious man, money changes hands. I shall not spell it out but I can and
do suggest that you beware in the future.”

The car stopped then before one of the taller buildings in Wall Street

and they emerged with Gus in a speculative state of mind. There was more
to constructing a tunnel than digging a hole he realized, and apparently
assassins could now be as-sumed to be an occupational hazard. Along with
Boards of Directors. But he was prepared for the latter at least, had been
preparing for this day for the past week, bolstering his facts, pinning down
his figures. Taking a chance, a leap into the darkness that had been
troubling him ever since he had first realized what must be done. His
career rest-ed upon the outcome of today’s meeting and rightly enough it
con-cerned him deeply. But, since the previous night when he had been
face to face with a far more literal and final leap into the darkness, his will
had been strengthened. What must be done must be done—and he would
do it.

Sir Winthrop he knew, and shook his hand, and was introduced to the

other members of the Board whom he was acquainted with only by name
and reputation. Self-made men all of them, solid and sure of themselves,
twenty-one different in-dividuals who blended into one as he looked. One
man, one body of men, whom he had to convince.

As he seated himself at the place reserved for him at the long table he

realized that the meeting had been in session for some time if the state of
the ashtrays was any indication; since these men were experienced
marksmen the spittoons showed no such evidence. This was clear proof
that he had been deliberately invited to arrive after the proposals
regard-ing his new status had been put be-fore the Board. There were no
ech-oes of discussion in the heavy drapes that framed the windows or in
the rich cigar fragrance of the air, but some hint of differences of opinion
could be detected in the rigid scowls and set faces of a few of the Board
members. Obviously the unanimity of opinion did not exist here as it did
on the Board in London; but Gus had expected this. He knew the state of
mind of his fellow colonials and had marshaled his facts to override any
objections.

“Gentlemen of the Board,” said Sir Winthrop, “we have been

dis-cussing one matter for some time now, that is the possibility of my
stepping down as chairman of this Board to be replaced by Captain
Washington, who will also be in charge of the engineering of the tunnel
here. This change has been forced upon us by the disastrous state of the
finances of the entire op-eration, finances that must be mend-ed if we are
to have any operation at all. It was decided to postpone a vote upon this
matter until the captain could be spoken to and interrogated. He is here.
Ah, I see Mr. Stratton wishes to begin.”

Mr. Stratton’s lean figure rose from its chair like a vulture ascending, a

jointed collection of black suit-ing and white skin with dark-set eyes and
pointed accusing finger, an up-setting apparition at any time and even
more so now as he rattled with anger.

“No good, no good at all, we can’t have our firm represented by a man

with the name of Washington, no not at all. As soon have Judas Isca-riot
as Board chairman, or Pontius Pilate, or Guy Fawkes—”

“Stratton, would you kindly con-fine yourself to the matter at hand and

reserve the historical lecture for another time.”

The speaker of these quiet but acidulous words lolled at ease in his

chair, a short and fat roly-poly sort of man with a great white beard that
flowed over his chest, a great black cigar that stuck up out of his mouth
like a flagstaff—and a cold, pene-trating eye that belied any impres-sion of
laxity or softness that the ex-terior might suggest.

“You’ll hear me out, Gould, and stay silent. There are some things that

cannot be forgotten—”

“There are some things that are better off forgotten,” came the

interruption again. “It is almost two hun-dred years now and you are still
try-ing to fight the rebellion over again. Enough I say. Your ancestors were
Tories, very nice for them, they picked the winning side. If they had lost
we would be calling them trai-tors now and maybe George Wash-ington
would have had them shot the way they squeezed poor old German George
to shoot him. Maybe you got guilt feelings about that, huh?, which is why
you keep scratching all the time at this same itch. For the record I got
ancestors, too, and one of them was involved, a Haym Solomon, poor
fellow lost everything he had financing the revolution and ended up selling
pickles out of a barrel on the east side. Does this bother me? Not a bit. I
vote the straight Tory ticket now because that is the party of the big

money and I got big money. Let bygones be bygones.”

“Then you were as unlucky in your choice of ancestors as Washington

was,” Stratton snapped back, bristling and crackling with anger and
shooting his cuffs in a manner which suggested that he wished there were
some real shooting of certain people involved. “I wouldn’t brag about it if I
were you. In any case the public at large is not aware of your indecorous
lineage whereas the name Washington has an in-eradicable taint. The
American pub-lic will rise in arms against anything connected with a
name so odious.”

“Yore full of hogwash, Henry,” a leathery Texas voice drawled out from

a large man far down the table who wore a wide-brimmed hat, des-pite
the fact the others were all bare-headed. “In the west we have a hard job
rememberin‘ where New En-gland is much less the details of all your
Yankee feudin’. If this engineer feller can sell the stock fer us, I say hire
him and be done with it.”

“Me, too,” a deep voice boomed in answer from a copper skinned

in-dividual even further along the Board. “All that the Indians know is that
all white men are no good. Too many of us were shot up before the Peace
of 1860. If oil hadn’t been dis-covered on Cherokee lands, I wouldn’t be
sitting here now. I say hire him.”

There was more spirited crosstalk after this that was finally hammered

into silence by the chairman’s gavel. He nodded to Gus who rose and faced
them all.

“What Mr. Stratton has to say is very important. If the name of

Washington will do injury to the tun-nel this fact must be taken into
con-sideration, and if true I will with-draw at once from the position that
is under discussion. But I feel, as oth-ers here apparently do as well, that
old hatreds are best forgotten in the new era. Since the original thirteen
states attempted to form their own government and failed, this country
has grown until now it numbers thirty-one states and the California
Territory. Living in these states are the various Indian tribes who care
little, as Chief Sunflower has told you, of our ancient squabbles. Also in
these states are refugees from the Baltic Wars, Jewish refugees from the
Russian pogroms, Dutch refu-gees from the Dike disaster, Swedish
refugees from the Danish occupa-tion, people from many different states
and nations who also do not care about these same ancient squabbles. I
say that they will be far more interested in the percentage of return upon

their investment than they will in my grandfather’s name. It is
unimportant and not relevant at this time.

“What is important is the plan I have conceived that will attract

investors, and it is my wish that you hear this plan before voting upon my
qualifications for the position. You will be buying a pig in a poke if you do
anything else. Let me tell you what I want to do, then, if you agree that my
plans have merit, vote for them and not the individual who proposes them.
If you think them bad then I am not the one you want and I will return to
my tunnel in En-gland and no more will be said on the subject.”

“Now that’s what I call plain talk. Let’s hear the boy out.”

There were cries of agreement at this proposal and Stratton’s rattle of

defiance was lost in the general ap-proval. Gus nodded and opened his
case and drew out the mass of papers he had so carefully prepared.

“Gentlemen, my only aim is to save the tunnel and this is the plan that I

put before you. This is all I have come to do. If I can help by being a
figurehead, then I shall climb up on the bowsprit of the corporate ship and
suspend myself from it. I am an engineer. My fondest ambition is to be
part of the building of the transatlantic tunnel. The British Board of
Directors feels that I can aid most by being in charge of the American end
of the tunnel, so that the American public will see that this is an American
enterprise as well. I do not wish to replace Mr. Macin-tosh but to aid him,
so that we can pull in a double harness. I hope he will remain as my first
assistant in all matters of construction and my equal if not my superior in
the matter of supplies and logistics for he is an expert in these matters.” A
bugle-like sniff announced that this state-ment was not amiss in at least
one quarter.

“In relation to this Board let my position be literally that of a

figurehead—though I would suggest this intelligence be kept within this
room. I am no financier and my hope is that Sir Winthrop will con-tinue
in his original function pro tem until the time arrives when he can fulfill it
in the public eye as well. I wish to build this tunnel and build it well, and
build it quickly so that a fair profit can be returned on in-vestments. That
is my prime func-tion. Secondly, I must publicize this construction in such
a manner that investors will flock to our banner and thrust dollars upon us
in ever-grow-ing sums.”

“Hear, hear!” someone called out while another said, “And how will that

be done?”

“In the following manner. We shall abandon the present technique of

construction and proceed in a dif-ferent, cheaper, faster way that will have
a broader base in the economy. Which stirring up of the economy I believe
was one of the motivating factors in the first place.”

“Does Sir Isambard know of this?” Macintosh called out, his face

flushed, the tin dark barrels of his nostrils aimed like mighty guns.

“To be very frank—he does not. Though we have discussed it many

times in the past. His decision has been to continue the present slip
casting technique until it proves im-practicable, if ever, and only then to
consider different methods of con-struction. I thought him wrong, but as
long as I was subordinate there was nothing I could do. Now that I hope to
assume what might be called an independent command I am ex-ercising
my judgment to make a change to a more modern, a more American
technique, to—”

“To stab him in the back!”

“Nothing of the sort.”

“Let him talk, Scotty,” the Texan called out. “He’s makin‘ sense so far.”

He had their attention and at least the sympathy of some. Now if he

could only convince them. There was absolute silence as Washington took
a blueprint from his case and held it up.

“This is what we are doing now, building the tunnel by slip casting,

what has been called the most mod-ern technique. As the tunneling shield
is pushed ahead and ground removed, this great metal tube is pushed
along behind it. Reinforcing rods are put in place outside the tube and
concrete is pumped in. The con-crete sets, the tube is advanced again and
the end result is a continuous tunnel that is cast in place. The shield
moves ahead at a varying rate but never averaging more than thirty feet a
day. Very impressive. Until you consider the width of the Atlan-tic.

“If this rate continues steadily—and we have no guarantee that it will

plus plenty of suspicion it will not—we will reach the midpoint in the
At-lantic at the same time, hopefully, as the British tunnel arrives, in
some-thing in the neighborhood of 105,000 days. That, gentlemen, is a bit

over two-hundred years.”

Rightly enough there was a mur-mur of dismay over this and some

quick calculations on the scratch pads.

“The figure is a disheartening one I agree, and most investors care for a

quicker return, but happily it is not the final one. What I suggest is that
we replace the technique we are now using which will speed the process
greatly, while at the same time giv-ing a great lift to the American
econ-omy in all spheres; shipbulding, steel, engineering, and many more.
And it will reduce the time needed for construction as well.

“Reduce it to about ten years’ time.”

Not surprisingly, there was instant consternation over this statement as

well as excitement and one man’s voice rose above the roar and spoke for
them all.

“How, I want to know, just tell me how!”

The hubbub died away as Wash-ington took a drawing from his case

and unfolded it and held it up for their inspection.

“This is how. You will note that this is a section of tunnel some ninety

feet in length and constructed of reinforced concrete. It contains two rail
tunnels, side by side, and a smaller service tunnel below. This is what the
tunnel we are driving now looks like. The smaller tunnel is known as an
adit and is driven first. In this manner we can test the rock and soil that
we shall be digging through and know what problems face the larger
tunnels. These tunnels are driven side by side and are con-nected at
intervals by cross cham-bers. All in all a complex and techni-cal manner to
tunnel and we should be very happy with the thirty feet a day we have
been averaging. Except for the fact that we have thousands of miles to go.
Therefore I suggest what may appear to be novel and untried, but let me
assure you that this technique has been tried and found true in this
country, in the tun-nels under Delaware Bay and the Mississippi River and
in other parts of the world such as Hong Kong H arbor.

“The technique is this: the tunnel is preformed and precast and built in

sections ashore—then floated to the site and sunk. Built under the best
conditions possible, tested for defects, left to cure and set, and only then
allowed to become a part of the tunnel.

“Can you gentlemen visualize what this will mean? All along the

Atlantic seaboard and in the Gulf of Mexico shipyards and newly
constructed facilities will be pre-fabricating the sections—even in the
Great Lakes and on the Saint Law-rence River the yards will be busy. Vast
amounts of steel and concrete will be needed almost at once—it goes
without saying that those who have invested in steel and concrete stand to
make a good deal of money. Contracts will be let to anyone who can prove
he will supply the goods. The economy of this nation cannot help but be
vitalized by an economic injection of such magnitude. The tunnel will be
built, and in the build-ing thereof this great country of ours will be built
anew!”

There were cheers at that, for Gus had fired them with his own

enthusiasm and they believed him. There was even more scribbling on
pads and quick looks at the Wall Street Journal to see what the condition
of steel and concrete stocks were; already some of the men were using
their pocket telegraphs to get in touch with their brokers. A feeling of new
life had swept the room and there were very few, one individual in
particular, who did not share in the overriding enthusiasm. When the
noise had died down Macintosh spoke.

“Sir Isambard must be notified of this suggestion. Nothing can be done

without his approval.”

Loud catcalls mixed with boos greeted this suggestion and it was Sir

Winthrop who spoke to the point.

“I do not think that will be neces-sary. The financing of the tunnel is in

trouble or this special meeting would not have been held, and Captain
Washington would not have been sent here in his present capacity. He has
a free hand from London, you must remember that, he has a free hand. If
the financial obligations are not met on this side of the Atlantic, then
there will be no tunnel at all. If this change in technique will assure
success, and I have no reason to be-lieve differently, then we must adopt
it. Nothing else is possible.”

There were questions then, all of them answered with precision and

facts, as well as a small amount of opposition mostly in the form of the
gentleman from New England.

“Mark my words—it will be a dis-aster. A name like Washington can

only bring the worst of results—”

He was shouted into silence and there was at least one cry of “Take his

scalp!”, which would be sin-gularly difficult since the hair that presumably
once had resided there had long vanished, but the utterance of which
made him clap his hand to his head and sit down with great alacrity so
that this voice of dissent from the general opinion was si-lenced and there
were no others to occupy its place. A verbal vote was taken and carried
with a good deal of cheering and only when silence reigned again did
Macintosh stand, shaking with anger, and address his closing remarks to
them all.

“Then so be it, I’ll not argue. But I consider this small repayment to the

great man who conceived and de-signed this tunnel.” He stabbed out a
damning finger. “A man who took you into his home, Augustine
Wash-ington, to whose daughter I do be-lieve you are engaged. Have you
ever thought what effect this decision will have on that young lady?”

The room was silent at this for, in his enthusiasm to defend his

employer and friend, Macintosh had overstepped the bounds of polite
society and had entered the dis-tasteful areas of personalities and abuse.
He must have realized this even as the words left his mouth be-cause he
blanched a grayer gray and started to sit, then rose again as Washington
turned to face him. The American’s features were set and firm, but an
observant eye would have noticed how all the tendons and veins rose up
from the back of his hands and how bloodless his knuckles were where he
clenched them. He spoke.

“I am glad this was mentioned, since it is sure to be questioned by

someone else at some later date. Firstly, I still admire and respect Sir
Isambard as my mentor and em-ployer and have nothing but the greatest
respect for him. In his sagac-ity he bids us wait to use this new tunneling
technique and we would wait had we but the time and the money. We do
not. So we will pro-ceed with a plan that has his approval at least in
theory, if not in ap-plication, at the present time. I wish him nothing but
good will and even understand his attitude towards me. He who stands
alone on Olympus does not wish to make room for oth-ers. And he does
stand alone as the engineer and builder of our age. When my new role in
the American developments was voted upon in London he felt he had been
done a personal injury and I can understand that, too. He has forbidden
me his house and I do not blame him in any way because according to his
lights he is correct. He has also insisted that the engagement between
myself and his daughter be terminated, and this has been done. I will not

discuss my personal feelings with you gen-tlemen other than I wish it were
not so. But it is. In one sense it is a good thing because it frees me to make
the correct decision, for the tunnel if not for myself.

“The money shall be raised and the tunnel shall be built in the manner I

have outlined.”

BOOK THE SECOND

UNDER THE SEA

I. AN UNUSUAL JOURNEY

The silence in the little cabin was almost absolute and were it not for

the constructions and devices of man it would have been, for here at thirty
fathoms of depth in the Atlantic there was no sound. On the ocean’s
surface above the waves might crash and roar and ships’ foghorns moan
as the vessels groped their way through the almost constant fogs of the
Grand Banks off Newfoundland, and nearer the surface pelagic life made
its own moans as it was consumed, the shrimp clicked, the dolphin
beeped, the fish burbled. Not so at the level where the tiny submarine
sped, here was the eternal quiet of the deep. Stillness outside and almost
as still within. There was only the distant hum of the electric motors that
drove them through the water, the sibilant whisper of the air vents and,
surprisingly the loudest, the tack-tack-tack of the jackdaw clock fixed to
the bulkhead above the pilot. There had been no conversation for some
minutes and in that vacuum the clock sounded the louder. The pilot saw
his passenger’s glance move to it and he smiled.

“You’ll be noticing the clock then, Captain,” said he, not without a

certain amount of pride.

“I do indeed,” said Washington, failing to add that it was impossible

not to notice the obtruding thing. “I assume it is an original?”

“Not only an original but it is close on being the original, one of the

very first ones made, that’s what it is. My grandfather it was who built the
first jackdaw clock after seeing one of them things from the Black Forest
when he was in a hock shop on O’Connell Street. Cuckoo clock it was, he
said, and it fascinated him, what with him being a clockmaker himself
and all of that. When he came home to Cashel he tried to build one but not
being overfond of cuckoos himself—great ugly thing laying eggs in others

nests and such incivility—he put in a jackdaw and a bit of ruined tower
that being where jackdaws are found in any case and there it was. He
made first one and then another and they caught on with the English
tourists out to look at the Castle and the Rock and before you could say
Brian O’Lynn an entire new industry was founded and to this day you’ll see
a statue of him in the square there in Cashel.”

As though to add emphasis to this panegyric the clock struck the hour

and the jackdaw emerged through the portal of the ruined abbey and
hoarsely shouted CAWR, CAWR before retreating.

“Is it two already?” asked Washington, looking at his watch which was

in rough agreement with the jackdaw who had retired to his dark cell for
another hour, “Are we going as fast as we can?”

“Full revs, Captain, Nautilus is doing her best.” The pilot pushed the

speed lever harder against its stop as though to prove his point. “In any
case there’s the site now.”

O’Toole turned off the outside lights so they could see farther through

the darkness of the sea. Above them there was a filtered greenness that
Vanished as the depth increased so that below there was only unrelieved
blackness. Yet when the glow of the beams had died away something could
be seen down there in abyss, light where only night had ruled since the
world was born. One light was visible, then another and another until a
cluster of submerged stars greeted them as they dropped lower,
welcoming them to a hive of industry alien to the ancient peace of the
ocean floor.

First of all the eye was captured by a hulking, squat, ugly, alien,

angular, boomed, buttressed and barbizaned machine that clutched the
ocean floor. It had the girder and rivet look of a sturdy bridge for well over
ninety-five percent of its construction was open to the ocean, at a pressure
equilibrium with the sea around it. The frame was open and the reaching
arms were open, while the tractor treads were jointed plates that ran on
sturdy cast-iron wheels. It took a keen eye to note the swollen bulges
behind the treads that contained the electric motors to power them,
though the rotund shape of the nuclear reactor, swung like a melon behind
the great ma-chine, was certainly easy enough to see. Other motors in
pods turned the gear wheels and cables while the most important pod of
all made a rounded excrescence on the front of the entire structure. This
was the control room and living quarters of the crew, pressurized,

comfortable and habitable, and so self-contained that the men could live
here for months on end without returning to the world above the waves
that was their natural habitat. Yet so large was the great supporting
device that even these stately quarters were no larger in proportion than
an egg would be balanced on the handle-bars of a bicycle, which, in some
ways, the structures did resemble.

This hulking machine, entitled the Challenger Mark IV Dredger by its

manufacturers, was nonetheless called Creepy by all who came into
contact with it, undoubtedly because of its maximum speed of about one
mile an hour. Creepy was neither creeping nor operating at the present
time which was all for the best since otherwise vision would have been
completely impossible, for while at work it threw up an obscuring cloud in
the water denser than the finest inky defense of the largest squid alive. Its
booms would then swing out and the rotating cutters, each as large as an
omnibus, would crash into the ocean floor, while about them compressed
streams of water tore at the silt and sand deposits of this bed. Under the
attack of the water and the cutting blades the eternal floor of the ocean
would be stirred and lifted—into the mouths of suction dredgers that
sucked at this slurry, raised and carried it far to the side where it was
spewed forth in a growing mound.

All of this agitation raised a cloud of fine particles in the water that

completely obscured vision and was penetrable only by the additional
application of scientific knowledge. Sound waves will travel through water,
opaque or no, and the returned echoes of the sonar scanner built up a
picture on the screen of events ahead in the newly dug trench. But
Creepy’s work was done for the moment, its motors silent, its digging
apparatus raised when it had backed away from the new trench.

Other machines now took their place upon the ocean floor. There was

an ugly device with a funnel-like proboscus that spat gravel into the ditch,
but this had finished as well and also backed away and the silt raised by
its disturbance quickly settled. Now the final work had begun, the reason
for all this subaqueous excavation. Floating downwards towards the
newly-dug trench and the bed of gravel on which it was to rest was the
ponderous and massive form of a preformed tunnel section. Tons of
concrete and steel reinforcing rods had gone into the construction of this
hundred foot section, while coat after coat of resistant epoxies covered it
on the outside. Preformed and prestressed it awaited only a safe arrival to
continue the ever-lengthening tunnel.

Thick cables rose from the embedded rings to the even larger flotation

tank that rode above it, for it had no buoyancy of its own. The tubes that
would be the operating part of the tunnel were open to the sea at both
ends. Massive and unyielding it hung there, now drifting forward slowly
under the buzzing pressure of four small submarines, sister vessels to the
one that Washington was riding in. They exchanged signals, stopping and
starting, then drifting sideways, until they were over the correct spot in
the trench. Then water was admitted to the ballast tanks of the float so it
dropped down slowly, setting the structure to rest on its prepared bed.
With massive precision the self-aligning joint between the sections
performed its function so that when the new’section came to rest it was
joined to and continuous with the last.

The subs buzzed down and the manipulating apparatus on their bows

clamped hydraulic jacks over the flanges and squeezed slowly to make the
two as one. Only when the rubber seals had been collapsed as far as their
stops did they halt and hold fast while the locking plates were fixed in
place. On the bottom other crawling machines were already waiting to put
the sealing forms around the junction so the special tremie, underwater
setting concrete, could be poured around the ends to join them indivisibly.

All was in order, everything as it should be, the machines below going

about their tasks as industriously as ants around a nest. Yet this very
orderliness was what drew Gus’s thoughts to the object off to one side, the
broken thing, the near catastrophe that for a brief while had threatened
the entire project.

A tunnel section. Humped and crushed with one end buried deep in the

silt of the ocean’s floor.

Had it been only twenty-four hours since the accident? One day. No

more. Men now alive would never forget the moments when the
supporting cable broke and the section had started its tumbling fall
towards the tunnel and Creepy close below it. One submarine, one man,
had been at the right spot at the right time and had done what needed to
be done. One tiny machine, propeller spinning, had stayed in position,
pushing with all its power so that the fall had shifted from a straight line
and had moved ever so slightly to one side, enough to clear the tunnel and
the machines below. But ma-chine and man had paid the price for so
boldly pitting themselves against the mass of that construction, for when
the tunnel section had struck and broken it had risen up like an avenging

hammer and struck the mote that presumed to fight against it. One man
had died, many had been saved. The name of Aloysius O’Brian would be
inscribed on the slate of honor. The first death and as honorable a one as a
man could want, if a man could be said to want death at all. Washington
breathed heavily at the thought, because there would be other deaths,
many deaths, before this tunnel’was completed. The pilot saw the
direction of his passenger’s gaze and read his thoughts as easily as though
they had been spoken aloud.

“And a good man, Aloysius was, even if he came from Waterford. The

Irish make good submariners and no empty boast is that and if ever
anyone should doubt that you just tell them about himself out there with a
thousand ton tombstone and what he did. But don’t fret yourself, Captain.
The other section is on the way, the replacement for that one, hours away
but moving steadily, the thing will be done.”

“May it be the truth, O’Toole, the very truth.”

The next section had already appeared and was visible in the lights

below and Gus knew that the final ones were waiting out there in the
darkness, with the ultimate one coming as fast as the tugs could pull.
Under his directions the sub moved along the length of the trench the
short distance to the two completed sections of tunnel that projected from
the caisson that would some day be the Grand Banks Station. The ocean
here was no more than eleven fathoms deep which made the dumping of
the rubble for the station that much easier. The artificial island, rose up to
the surface before them, an island growing all the time as barge after
barge of stone and sand was added to it. Gus looked at his watch and
pointed ahead.

“Take us up,” he ordered.

A floating dock was secured here and they rose next to it and there was

the thud of the magnetic grapple striking the hull as they were hauled into
position. O’Toole worked the controls that opened the hatches above and
the fresh, damp ocean air struck moistly against Gus’s face as he climbed
to the deck. The sun had set unremarked while he had been below the
ocean’s surface and the fog, temporarily held at bay by the warming rays,
was returning in all haste as though to make up for time lost. Streamers of
it rolled across the dock, bearing with them a sudden chill in the northern
September evening. A ladder had been lowered to the submarine and Gus
climbed towards the sailor waiting above who saluted him as he stepped

from it.

“Captain’s compliments, sir, and he says the ship is waiting and we’ll

cast off as soon as you’re aboard.”

Gus followed the man, yawning as he did for it had been a long day,

beginning well before dawn, and it was the latest of an endless series of
similar days stretching into the past longer than he could remember.
When he looked in the mirror to shave he was sometimes startled at the
stranger who looked back at him, a man with an unhealthy pallor from
being too long away from the sun, dark-burnt circles under the eyes from
being too often away from his bed, touches of gray around the temples
from too much responsibility too long borne. But no regrets ever, for what
he was doing was worth doing, the game worth the candle. His only regret
even now was that although he had a full night ahead of him when he
could sleep, this night would be spent aboard H.M.S. Boadicea known
affectionately to her crew as Old Bonebreaker for the quality of her
passage over troubled waters.

She was a hovercraft, the newest addition to the Royal American Coast

Guard, capable of fifty knots over even the most towering seas, or sand, or
swamp, or solid ground for that matter, the revenue agent’s delight, the
smuggler’s dread, at top speed she rode like a springless lorry on a
washboard road so was not the vessel of choice when one wanted a good
night’s sleep But speed was the point of this trip, not sleep, and“ speed was
what this unusual Vehicle could certainly guarantee.

Captain Stokes himself was waiting at the top of the gangplank and his

welcoming smile was sincere as he shook Washington’s hand.

“A pleasure to have you aboard, Captain Washington,” spoken quietly.

“Cast off those lines,” exploded out like the shell from a gun towards the
ratings on deck. “Reports say a moderate swell so we should be able —to
maintain fifty-five knots for most of the night. If the seas stay that smooth,
our ETA at Bridgehampton will be dawn. Reporter chap coming along for
the ride, no way to stop him, hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Captain. Publicity has been the making of this tunnel, so

when the press wants to see me I am available.”

The reporter stood up when they entered the officers’ mess, a sturdy,

sandy man in a checked suit wearing a bowler, the traditional hat of all

newsmen. He was one of the new breed of electronic reporters, the
recording equipment slung on his back like a pack, with the microphone
peeping over one shoulder, the lens of the camera over the other.
“Biamonte of the New York Times, Captain Washington. And I’m pool
man, too, drawer of the lucky straw.

Since only one reporter could come on this voyage I’m AP, UP, Reuters,

Daily News, the lot. I have a few questions—“

“Which I will be more than happy to answer in a few moments. But I

have never been aboard a hovercraft before and I would like to watch her
when she pulls out.”

Scarcely a second was being wasted on the departure. The two great

propellers mounted on towers in the stern were already beginning to turn
over as the lines that secured Boadicea to the dock were being cast off.
The thrust propellers for the surface effect must have been turned on at
the same time for the great craft shifted and stirred, then, strangest
sensation of all, began to lift straight up into the air. Higher and higher,
six, eight, ten feet it lifted until it was literally riding on a cushion of air
and had no contact with the water at all. The thrust propellers were now
just silvery disks, disks that could pivot back or forth on top of their
mounts, and swing about they did until they faced crosswise rather than
fore and aft and under their pressure the craft floated easily away from the
dock. They turned again, thrusting now at full speed and bit by bit the
modern Boadicea became a lady conqueror of the waves riding up and
over them, faster and faster, rushing south into the night. But the
hammering and shaking increased as she did, so that the plates rattled in
the racks and the charts in their cupboards and Gus gratefully sought the
softening comfort of the sofa.

Biamonte sat across from him and touched buttons on his hand

controller. “Are we going to win, Captain Washington, that is the question
that is on everyone’s lips today? Shall we win?”

“It has never been a question of winning or losing. Circumstances were

almost completely governed by chance so that the American section of
tunnel is reaching completion to the shelf station just about the same time
as the English section to their station on the Great Sole Bank. There never
was a race. The situations are different, even the distances involved are
different.”

“They certainly are and that is what makes this race, that you won’t call

a race, so exciting. The American tunnel is three times as long as the
English…”

“Not quite three times.”

“But still a good deal longer, you’ll have to admit, and to build our

tunnel in the same length of time as theirs is in itself a victory and a
source of pride to all Americans. It will be an even greater victory if you
can make a trip through the entire length of the American tunnel and then
reach London in time to be aboard the first train to pass through the
English tunnel. That train will be leaving Paddington Station in less than
thirty hours. Do you still think you will be aboard it?”

“I have every expectation.” The hovercraft had reached its maximum

speed now and was hammering along like a demented railway carriage,
leaping from wave to wave. Biamonte swallowed and loosened his collar as
a fine beading of perspiration appeared on his brow, for those of delicate
tummies the-hovercraft is not a recommended form of transportation.
But, sick or well, he was still a reporter and he pressed on.

“Does not the fact that one segment of the tunnel was destroyed

interfere with your chances of winning?”

“I wish you would not refer to winning or losing since I feel it does not

apply. In answer to your question, no, it has not altered the situation
appreciably. Extra sections were constructed, reserve sections, in case
faults developed in any of the others during construction. The final section
is on its way now and will be placed during the night.”

“Would you care to comment upon the fact that Mr. J. E. Hoover, of the

Long Island region branch of the Colonial Bureau of Investigation, thinks
that sabotage may be involved with the broken cable and that he has a
man in custody?”

“I have no comment since I know no more about it than you do.”

Gus kept all emotion from his voice, giving no hint that this was not the

first case of attempted sabotage to the project. The reporter was now
turning an interesting shade of green and noticed nothing. Yet he
persevered with his questions despite a growing glassiness of the eye and a
certain hoarseness of voice.

“Since the accident the bookmakers’ odds have fallen from five to three

in your favor to even money. Does the immense amounts wagered upon
your reaching London in time bother you at all?”

“Not in the slightest. Gambling is not one of my vices.”

“Would you tell me what your vices are?”

“Not answering that sort of question is one of them.”

They both smiled at this light exchange, though Biamonte’s smile had a

certain fixed, or frozen, quality. He definitely was green now and had some
small difficulty speaking as Boadicea charged the briny hills with
undiminished energy.

“More seriously then… would you explain… the importance of these

stations… in the ocean… for the tunnel.”

“Certainly. If you had before you a three-dimensional map of the world

with all the waters of the oceans stripped away, you would see that the
seas bordering the British Isles and North America are quite shallow,
relatively speaking. Here we have the continental shelf, shoal water,
stretching along our coast up to Canada and out past the island of
Newfoundland to the. Grand Banks that border the abyssal plain. An
underwater cliff begins here steep, sharp and deep, dropping more
abruptly than any mountain range on earth. You saw the artificial island
that is the beginning of the Grand Banks Station, it stands in sixty-six feet
of water. Beyond this the bottom drops sharply down to over fifteen
thousand feet, three miles in depth. The British Point 200 in the Great
Sole Bank stands in forty-two feet of water, also at the edge of a three-mile
drop. These two stations mark the limits of our shallow water operations,
and beyond them we will have to use different types of tunnels and
different types of trains. Therefore, train junctions must be built as well
as…”

He did not finish because the reporter was no longer there. With a

strangled gasp he had clutched at his mouth and rushed from the room. It
was something of a wonder to Gus, who had a cast-iron constitution when
it came to things of this sort, why people behaved like this, though he
knew some did. But the interruption was timely since it gave him an
opportunity to get some rest. He found the captain on the bridge and after
a brief but interesting talk concerning the technologies of this newfangled

craft the captain offered his own quarters for the use of his visitor. The
bed was most comfortable and Gus fell at once into a deep though not
undisturbed sleep. Complete relaxation was not possible and his eyes were
already open when the messboy brought in a cup-like container with a
spout in its top. “Coffee, sir, fresh from the thermos, sugar and cream like
I hope you like. Just suck on the top there, splashproof valve, easy enough
to work once you catch on.”

It was, and the coffee was good. After a wash and a quick shave Gus felt

immensely better as he climbed back to the bridge. Astern the sea was
washed with golden light as dawn approached, while ahead dark night still
reigned though the stars were going and the low outline of Long Island
could be clearly seen. The lighthouse on Montauk Point flashed welcome
and within a few minutes its form could be clearly seen against the
lightening sky. The captain, who had not quit his bridge the entire night,
bid Washington a good morning then passed him a piece of paper.

“This was received by radio a few minutes ago.” Gus opened it and

read.

CAPT. G. WASHINGTON ABOARD HMS BOADICEA. FINAL

SECTION INSTALLED SEALING CONTINUED AS PLANNED. EOC
EIGHT FEET GOWAN WILL UNIFY ALL IN THE GREEN. SAPPER

“I am afraid the radio operator was quite mystified,” said Captain

Stokes. “But he had the message repeated and says this is correct.”

“It certainly is, and the news could not be better. All of the sections of

the tunnel are ”in place and are being sealed together for a water-tight
bond. As you undoubtedly know, other sections of the tunnel were
extended back from the Grand Banks Station to meet the ones coming the
other way. Surveying is not easy on the ocean floor, plus the fact that we
wanted some leeway when the two tunnels met. While we can
manufacture sections of tunnel underwater, “ we cannot shorten sections
already fabricated. Our error of closure was eight feet, almost exactly what
we estimated it would be. Right now mud is being poured between the
ends and this will be stabilized with the Gowan units, they will freeze it
solid with liquid nitrogen so we can bore through. Everything is going as
planned.”

Gus had not realized that the others on the bridge, the steersman,

sailors and officers, all of them, had been listening as he spoke, but he was

made aware of this as a cheer broke out from them.

“Silence!” the captain roared. “You act like a herd of raw boots, not

seamen.” Yet he was smiling as he said it for he shared their enthusiasm.
“You are destroying the morale of my ship, Captain Washington, but just
this once I do not mind. Though we are Royal Coast Guard, and as loyal to
the Queen as any others, we are still Americans. What you have done, are
doing, with your tunnel, has done more to unify us and remind us of our
American heritage than anything I can remember. This is a great day and
we are behind you one hundred percent.”

Gus seized his hand, firmly. “I shall never forget those words, Captain,

for they mean more to me than any prizes or awards. What I do I do for
this country, to unite it. I ask no more.”

Then they were entering the outer harbor at Bridgehampton, slowing so

the spray no longer rose in great sheets around them. This sleepy little
town near the tip of Long Island had changed radically in the years since
the tunnel had begun, for here was the American terminus of the great
project. A few white frame houses of the original inhabitants remained
along the shore, but most had been swallowed in the docks, ramps,
boat-works, assembly plants, storehouses, marshaling yards, offices,
barracks, buildings, boom and bustle that had overwhelmed the town.
Boadicea pointed towards the beach and slid over the surf and up onto the
sand where it finally settled to rest. As soon as the storm of blowing
particles had ceased a police car raced across the hard-packed surface and
slid to a stop. The driver opened the door and saluted as Washington
came down the ramp.

“I was told to meet you, sir. The special train is waiting.”

As indeed it was, as well as a cheering crowd of early risers, or rather

nonrisers and nonsleepers most of whom must have spent the coolish
night here hr vigil, warming themselves around now cold bonfires, rousing
up to listen to every word of Washington’s progress as it was passed down
from the tunnel headquarters. They were on his side and he was their hero
sp the general joy and noise rose to a fever pitch when he appeared, while
the mob seethed and churned like a soup pot on the boil as everyone
wanted to get closer at the same time.

A platform had been erected, draped with flags and bunting, where a

red-faced band sat and trumpeted loud but unheard music that was

drowned completely by the thunderous ovation. Everyone there wanted to
greet Washington, shake his hand,“ touch his clothing, have some contact
with this man upon this day. The police could not have prevented them,
but a gang of navvies could and did, they surrounded him with the
solidness of their bodies and boots and tramped a path towards the
waiting train. On the way they passed the stand which Washington
mounted, to shake hands quickly with the silkhatted dignitaries there and
to wave to the crowd. They cheered even more loudly then fell almost silent
so his words reached all.

“Thank you. This is America’s day. I’m going now.”

Concise but correct and then he was on his way again to the train

where a strong bronze hand reached down to half lift him into the single
coach behind the electric engine. No sooner had his feet touched the step
than the train began to move, picking up speed quickly, rattling through
the points and rushing at the black opening framed by the proud words,
Transatlantic Tunnel.

Gus had no sooner seated himself than that same elevating bronze hand

became a bearing hand and produced a bottle of beer which it presented,
open and frothing, to him. Since beef and beer are the life-blood of the
navvies he had long since accustomed himself to this diet, at any hour of
the day and night, so that he now seized the bottle as though he normally
broke his fast with this malt beverage, as indeed he had many times, and
raised it to his lips. The owner of this same bronze hand had another
bottle ready which he also lifted and half drained at a swallow, then sighed
with pleasure.

Sapper Cornplanter, of the Oneida tribe of the Iroquois nation, head

ganger of the tunnel, loyal friend. He was close to seven feet of
copper-skinned bone and sinew and muscle, black haired, black of eye,
slow to anger but when angry a juggernaut of justice with fists the size of
Virginia hams and hard as granite A gold circlet with an elk’s tooth
pendant from it hung from his right ear and he twisted it between his
fingers now as he thought, as was his habit when deep concentration was
needed. The twisted elk’s tooth by some internal magic twisted up. his
thoughts into a workable bundle and when they were nicely tightened and
manageable he produced the result.

“You’re cutting this whole operation mighty fine, Captain.”

“A conclusion I had reached independently, Sapper. Do you have any

reason to think that I won’t make it?”

“Nothing—except the fact that you have no leeway, no fat in the

schedule at all in case of the unforeseen and I might remind you that the
unforeseen is something tunnelers always have to take into consideration.
The tunnel sections are all in place and the tremie seals between the joints
poured, everything is going as well as might be expected. The last five
tunnel sections are still filled with water since we need some hours for the
joints to seal. On your orders. Want me to phone ahead and have them
drained?”

“Absolutely not since we need as much time as possible for the setting.

Just make sure the equipment is ready so we can get right at it. Now what
about my connection at the station?”

“The RAF helicopter is already there, fuelled and standing by. As well as

the Wellington in Gander. They will get you through just as long as the
Great Spirit showers his blessings, but there is a chance that He will
shower more than blessings. There is a weather low out in the Atlantic,
force nine winds and snow, moving in the direction of Newfoundland, and
it looks like heap big trouble.”

“May I get there first!”

“I’ll drink to that.” And he was as good as his word, producing two

more bottles of Sitting Bull beer from the case beneath his seat.

With ever increasing speed the train drove deeper into that black

tunnel under the Atlantic, retracing the course beneath the sea that the
hovercraft had so recently taken above it. But here, far away from the
weather and the irregularities of wind and wave, over a roadbed made
smooth by the technical expertise of man, far greater speeds could be
reached than could ever be possible on the ocean above. Within minutes
the train was hurtling through the darkness at twice the speed ever
attained on the outward trip so that after a few more beers, a few more
hours, a hearty meal of beef and potatoes from an extemporized
kitchen—a blow torch and an iron pot—they began to slow for the final
stop.

Final it was, for the driver, knowing the urgency, had in his

enthusiasm, stopped with his front wheels scant inches from the end of

the track. In seconds Washington and Sapper had jumped down and
clam-bored into the electric van for the short journey to the workface.
Lights whisked by overhead in a blur while up ahead the sealed end of the
tunnel rushed towards them.

“Better put these boots on,” Sapper said, handing over a hip-high pair.

“It is going to get wetter before it gets drier.”

Washington pulled the boots on they were stopping, and when he

jumped down from the van Sapp was already at the unusual device that
stood to one side of the tunnel.“ While he adjusted the various levers and
dials upon it the van hummed, into reverse and rushed away. Gus joined
the small group of navvies there who greeted him warmly and whom he
answered in turn, calling each of them by name. Sapper shouted to them
for aid and they rolled the machine closer to the tunnel wall and arranged
the thick electric cables back out of the way.

“Ready whenever you say, Captain.”

“Fire it.”

When the head ganger pulled down the master switch a thin beam of

burning ruby light lashed from -the laser and struck high up on the rusted
steel panel that sealed the tunnel’s end. That this was no ordinary manner
of light was manifest when the metal-began to glow and melt and run.

“Stand to one side,” Washington ordered. “The tunnel ahead is sealed

off from the ocean but it is still full of water under tremendous pressure.
When the laser holes through we are going to have…”

The reality of the experience drowned out the descriptive words as the

intense beam of coherent light penetrated the thick steel of the shield and
on the instant a jet of water no thicker than a man’s finger shot out,
hissing like a hundred demons, as solid as a bar of steel, under such great
pressure that it burst straight back down the tunnel a hundred feet before
it turned to spray and fell.

In the meantime Sapper had not been idle and his beam was now

cutting out a circle of metal high‘ up on the top of the shield, a circle that
was never completed because the pressure on the other side was so great
that the disk of solid steel was bent forward and out to release a column of
water that roared deafeningly in their ears as it hurtled by. Now the

tunnel was chilled and dampened by the spray of the frigid water and a
vaporous haze obscured their vision. But the burning beam of light cut on,
making an oblong opening in the center of the shield that extended
downward as the water level lowered.

When the halfway mark was reached Washington got on the phone and

radio link to the men at the Grand Banks Station end of the tunnel.
Though they were no more than a tenth of a mile ahead there was no way
to speak directly to them, his voice went by telephone back to
Bridgehampton, from there by radio link across the ocean.

“Open her up,” Washington ordered. “The water is low enough now and

everything is holding.”

“Too much for the pumps to handle,” Sapper said as he looked down

gloomily at the dark water rising around their ankles, for the water here
had to be pumped back eighty miles to the nearest artificial island with a
ventilation tower.

“We won’t drown,” was the only answer he received and he twisted his

elk’s tooth in the earring as he thought about it. But at the same time he
worked the laser until he had driven the opening down to the level of the
rising water around them, where the beam spluttered and hissed. Only
then did he enlarge the opening‘ so a man could fit through.

“It won’t get any lower for a while,” said Gus, looking at the chill water

that reached almost to his waist. “Let us go.”

In a single file they clambered through, with Washington leading, and

forced their way against the swirling water beyond. An instant later they
were soaked to the skin and in two instants chilled to the bone, yet there
was not one mutter of complaint. They shone their bright electric torches
about as they walked and the only conversation was technical comment
about the state of the tunnel. The joints were sealed and not leaking, the
work was almost done, the first section of the tunnel almost completed. All
that lay in their way was eight feet of frozen mud that formed the great
plug that sealed the end of this tunnel and joined it to the sections beyond.

All of the navvies carried shovels and now there was a use for them, for

when the mud had been pumped in from the outside it had flowed part
way back down the tube and was not congealed. They tackled this with a
will, arms moving like pistons, working in absolute silence, and before this

resolute attack the wet earth was eaten away, tossed to one side,
penetrated. Their shovels could not dent the frosty frozen surface of the
sealing plug but, even as they reached it, a continuous grinding could be
heard—and then a burst of sound and a spatter of fragments as a shiny
drill tip came thrusting out of the hard surface.

“Holed through!” Sapper called out and added an exuberant war cry

that the others echoed. When the drill was withdrawn Gus clambered up
to the hole and shouted through it, could see the light at the far end, and
when he pressed his ear to the opening he could hear the answering
voices.

“Holed through,” he echoed and there was a light in his eyes that had

not been there before. Now the navvies stood about, leaning on their
shovels and chattering like washerwomen as the machines and men on the
other side enlarged the opening from a few inches to a foot to two feet

“Good enough,” Sapper shouted through the tunnel in the frozen mud.

“Let’s have a line through here.”

A moment later the rope end was pushed through and seized and tied

into a sturdy loop. Washington dropped it over his shoulders and settled it
well under his arms, then bent to put his head into the opening. The faces
at the other end saw this and cheered again and even while cheering
pulled steadily and firmly on the rope so he slid forward bumping and
catching and sliding until he emerged at the other end, out of breath and
red-faced—but there. More hands seized him and practically lifted him
onto the waiting car that instantly jumped forward. He wrestled free of
the rope as they stopped then sprang for the elevator. It rose as he put foot
to it, rattling up the shaft to emerge in the watery afternoon sunshine of
the Grand Banks. Still more than a little out of breath he ran across to the
level spot before the offices, brushing the dirt from him as he went, to the
strange craft that was awaiting his arrival.

It is one thing to gather intelligence from the printed word and the

reproduced photograph, to be deluded into the knowledge that one is
acquainted with an object one has never seen in three-dimensional reality,
yet it is another thing altogether to see the object itself in all the rotundity
of its existence and realize at once that there is a universe of difference
between the two. Gus had read enough to labor under the delusion that he
knew what there was to know about a helicopter so that the reality that he
was wrong J caused him to start and almost! stumble.

He slowed his run to a fast walk then and approached the great

machine with more than a little awe manifest in his expression.

In the first place the machine was far bigger than he imagined, as large

as a two-decker London omnibus standing on end. Egg shaped, oh
definitely, as ovular as any natural product of the hen, perched on its big
end with the smaller high in the air above, squatting on three long curved
legs that sprang out of the body and that could be returned in flight to
cunningly artificed niches carved from the sides. The upper third of the
egg was transparent and from the very apex of this crystal canopy there
jutted up a steel shaft that supported two immense four-bladed propellers
separated, one above the other, by a bulge in the shaft. Gus had barely a
moment to absorb these details before a door sprang open in the dome
and a rope ladder unrolled and rattled down at his feet, a head appeared
in the opening and a cheery voice called out.

“If you’ll join me, sir, we’ll be leaving.”

There was a lilt to the words that spoke of Merioneth or Caernarvon,

and when Gus had clambered up to the entrance he was not surprised to
see the dark hair and slight form of an R.A.F. officer who introduced
himself as Lieutenant Jones.

“You sit there, sir, those straps for strapping in, sir.”

While he spoke, and even before Gus had dropped into the second chair

in the tiny chamber, Jones’s fingers were flitting over the controls putting
into operation this great flying engine.- There was a hissing rumble from
somewhere beneath their feet, a sound that grew rapidly to a cavernous
roar and, as it did so, the long-bladed rotors above their heads stirred to
life and began to rotate in opposite directions. Soon they were just great
shimmering disks and as they bit into the air the helicopter stirred and
shook itself like a waking beast—then leaped straight up into the air. A
touch on a button retracted their landing legs while the tiny artificial
island dropped away beneath them and vanished, until nothing except
ocean could be seen in all directions.

“Being an engineer yourself, Captain Washington, you can appreciate a

machine such as this one. A turbine, she has, that puts out two thousand
horsepower to turn the contra-rotating rotors for a maximum forward
speed of two hundred seventeen miles in the hour. Navigation is by radio
beam and right now we are locked onto the Gander signal and all I need

do is keep that needle on that point and we’ll be going there directly.”

“Your fuel?”

“Butane gas, in the liquid form, very calorific.”

“Indeed it is.”

Within a matter of minutes the coast of Newfoundland Island was in

sight and the city of St. John’s moved smoothly by beneath them. Their
route took them along the coast and over the countless bays that fringed
the shore. Jones looked out at the landscape then back to his controls and
his hand reached out to touch a switch.

“Number One tank almost empty so I’ll switch to Number Two.”

He threw the switch and the turbine rumbled and promptly died.

“Now that is not the normal thing I’m sure,” said he with a slight

frown. “But not to worry. I‘ can switch to tank Number Three.”

Which he did and still the engine remained silent and they began to

fall.

“Well, well, tank Four.” Which proved to be as ineffective in propelling

the ship as had its earlier mates. “But we cannot crash, bach, there is that.
We windmill down to a soft landing.”

“Wet landing,” Gus said pointing out at the ocean.

“A well made point. But there, should be enough fuel left in tank One to

enable us to reach the shore.”

The flying officer seemed cheered by these final words because they

were the first true prediction he had made in some time, for when he
switched back to the first tank the turbine rumbled to life instantly and
the helicopter surged with power. As he curved their course towards the
shore he tapped, each in its turn, the dials set above the switch, then
shook his head.

“They all read full, I cannot understand it.”

“Might I suggest you radio the base at Gander about our situation.”

“A fine idea, sir, would I could. No radio. Experimental ship you know.

But there, beyond that field, a farmhouse sure, perhaps a telephone,
contact reestablished.”

As though to defy his words the turbine coughed and stopped again

and their forward flight changed to an easy descent. Jones hurriedly
lowered the landing legs and they had no sooner locked into position than
the craft touched the ground in the center of a plowed field. Instants later
the pilot had thrown open a door in the floor and had dived down into the
maze of machinery below.

“That is very interesting,” he said, spanner in hand and banging on the

cylindrical tanks below him. “They are empty, all of them.”

“Interesting indeed, and I shall report their condition if I can find a

telephone at that farmhouse.”

The hatch release was easy to locate and Gus pushed it open and threw

the rope ladder out and was on it and down it even before the lower end
had touched the ground. At a quick trot he crossed the field, angling
towards the patch of woods behind which the farmhouse was located,
running as quickly as he could across the stubble, running his thoughts no
less quickly over the hours remaining before the train left London, the
darkening sky above a dire portent of their vanishing number. Nine a.m.
the train departed, nine in the morning and here he was on the other side
of the Atlantic the evening before, running, which was not the most
efficient form of ocean crossing imaginable. For the very first time he felt
that he might not make it in time, that all the effort had been in vain—but
still he kept on running. Giving up were two words he simply did not
know.

A farm track, a wooden fence and finally, reluctantly, the trees thinned

out to permit a wood framed farmhouse to come into view. The door was
closed, no one in sight, the shutters drawn. Deserted? It could not be.
With raised fist he hammered loudly on the door, again and again, and
almost abandoned hope before there was the rattle of a moving bolt and it
opened a crack to reveal a suspicious eye set in an even more suspicious
face and, if a beard can be said to be suspicious, wrapped around about by
a full and suspicious graying beard.

“Aye?” a suspicious voice muttered, nothing more.

“My name is Washington, sir, and I am in some distress. My flying

vehicle has been forced down in your field and I would like very much to
make a call with your telephone, for which you will be reimbursed.”

“No telephone.” The door closed far quicker than it had opened and

Washington instantly pounded upon it until it reluctantly opened for a
second time.

“Perhaps you could tell me where the nearest neighbor with a phone—”

“No neighbors.”

“Or the nearest town- where a phone—”

“No towns.”

“Then perhaps you could allow me into your house so we could discuss

where I could find a telephone,” Washington roared in a voice accustomed
to giving orders over the loudest of background clamor. Where good
manners had not prevailed this issuing of a command had, for the door
opened wider, though still reluctantly, and he stamped after the owner
into the house. They entered a modest kitchen, lit by glowing yellow lights,
and Washington strode back and forth the length of it, his hands clasped
tightly behind his back, while he attempted to discover from the reluctant
rustic what his next step would be. A good five minutes of questioning
managed to worm out the tightly held information that nothing could
possibly be done in any reasonable. length of time. The nearest town, far
distant, the neighbors, nonexistent, transportation in fine, only equine.

“Nothing can be done then. I have lost.”

With these sad words Gus smacked his fist into his palm with great

force, then held his wristwatch towards the lamp so he could tell the time.
Six in the evening. He should have been at the air base by now, boarding
the Super Wellington for the jet flight to England, instead he was in this
primitive kitchen. Six, now, eleven at night in London and the train
departed at nine in the morning. The light hissed and flickered slightly
and the hands on the watch irrevocably told the lateness of the hour. The
light flickered again and Gus slowly raised his vision to the shade, the
transparent globe, the glowing hot mantle within.

“What… kind… of… light… is… this—?” he asked with grim hesitation.

“Gas,” was the reluctant answer.

What kind of gas?“

“In a tank. The truck comes to fill it.”

The light of hope was rekindled in Gus’s eyes as he spun about to face

the man again. “Propane? Could it be propane? Have you heard that word,
sir?”

Squirming to hold in the fact, the fanner finally had to release it.

“Something like that.”

“It is that, because that is the only sort of liquid gas that can be used in

the north because butane will not vaporize at lower temperatures. There is
hope yet. I wish to purchase that tank of gas and rent your farm wagon
and horse to transport it for me. What do you say to that, sir?”

“No.”

“I will pay you one hundred dollars for it.”

“Maybe.”

“I will pay you two hundred dollars.”

“Let me see it.”

Gus had his wallet out on the instant and the bank notes smacking on

the table. The head and the beard shook in a very definite and negative no.

“Colonial money. I don’t take it. Canadian greenbacks or sterling,

either.”

“I have neither.”

“I ain’t selling.”

Gus would not give in, not surrender to this backwoods agrarian, the

man who had triumphed over the ocean would not admit defeat at the
hands of a pastoral peasant.

“We will swap then.”

“Whatcher got?”

“This.” He had his watch off in an instant and dangling tantalizingly

before the other’s eyes. “A two-hundred and thirty-seven dollar waterproof
watch with four hands and seven buttons.”

“Got a watch.”

“Not a shockproof, self-winding, day-of-the-week-and-month-revealing

watch that tells the time when this button is pressed,” a tiny bell struck six
times, “and contains an infinitesimal radio permanently tuned to the
government weather station that gives a report when this one is pressed.”

“… Small craft warnings out, snow and winds of gale velocity

A report he would just as well not have heard. Standing there, the

watch of many qualities extended in silence until, with the utmost
reluctance, a work-gnarled hand came up and, with the greatest
trepidation, touched it. “It’s a deal.”

Then physical work, a harsh anodyne to the frustration of impotent

waiting, struggling with the ponderous tank by the light of a paraffin
lantern, loading it into the farm cart, harnessing the reluctant beast,
driving it down the track, pushing mightily to get it over the ruts in the
field towards the lighted helicopter where Jones’s head popped out of the
open hatch when he was hailed.

“Found the trouble, sir, and strange it is since I filled the tanks myself.

They are empty and the indicators somehow broken so they read only full.
It could only be—”

“Sabotage. But I have the answer here. Propane, and may there be

enough of it to reach the base at Gander.”

It was the work of seconds to remove the access ports and reveal the

hulking forms of the helicopter’s fuel tanks. Jones spat on his palms and
reached for his toolbox.

“We’ll have to have these out since there is no way to transfer the fuel. If

you will tackle the fittings above, Captain, I’ll tackle the clamps and we’ll
have them pulled before you can say Rhosllanerchrugog.”

They worked with a will, metal struck metal and there was no further

sound other than an occasional muffled curse when a wrench slipped and
drew blood from barked knuckles. The tanks were freed and toppled out to
the ground, after which with an even greater effort, they managed to raise
the replacement tank into their vacated position.

“A lorry will return your tank and remove these,” Jones said and

received a reluctant nod in returns

Straps had to be arranged to secure the new tank in position, and there

was some difficulty in attaching the fitting to its valve, but within the hour
the job was done and the last connection tightened, the plates lifted back
into place. The wind had accelerated while they worked and now the first
flakes of snow sped by in the lantern’s light. Gus saw them but said
nothing, the pilot was working as fast as he could, but he did glance at his
wrist before he remembered his watch was no longer there. Surely there
was still time. The new jet Wellingtons were rumoured to do over six
hundred miles an hour. There must still be time. Then the job was done,
the last fastener fastened, the last test completed.

They climbed the ladder and rolled it up and at the touch of the switch

the great engine stirred and roared to life once more. Jones turned on the
landing lights and in that fierce glare they saw the snow, thicker now, the
frightened horse kicking up its heels against the wagon then stampeding
out of sight with the shouting farmer in hot pursuit while the rotors spun,
faster and faster until they were up, up and away into the blinding storm.

“Instruments all the way,” said Jones with calm assurance. “There’s

nothing over five hundred feet high between us and the field so I’ll hold
her at a thousand, no need to waste fuel going higher. Follow the beam
and keep an eye on the altimeter and that’s all there is to it.”

That was not all there was to it for the weather worsened with every

mile they flew until the great mass of the helicopter was tossed and spun
about like a child’s kite. Only the ready skill and lightning reflexes of the
pilot held them on course while, despite his outward calm, the dampening
of his shirt collar indicated the severity of the task. Gus said nothing, but
held tight to the seat and looked out at the swirling snow as it blew
through the golden cone of their lights and tried not to think about the
minutes quickly slipping by. There was still time, there had to be time.

“Now look at that, just look at that!” Jones called out cheerily as he

spared an instant to point to their radio beacon where the needle was
spinning in mad circles. “Broken!”

“Not half likely—it just means that we are over the beacon, over the

field. Hold tight for we are going down.”

And down they did go, plummeting towards the unseen ground below

while the altimeter unwound and the snow rushed by.

“Do you see anything, Captain Washington?”

“Snow, just snow and blackness.

Wait… a moment… there! Off to port, lights of some kind, and more

below us.“

“Gander. And there come the lads to hold her down and just in time.

Sit tight for this is not ideal weather to maneuver.”

But he did it. A fall, some quick work with the controls and throttle to

check them, slow, drop again, until with a jar and a thud they were
grounded and the engine died as the throttle was closed.

“I’ll never forget what you have done, Jones,” said Gus as he warmly

shook the other’s hand.

“Just part of the ordinary R.A.F. service, Captain. A pleasure to have

you with me. You’ll win this yet.”

But would he? After a quick rush through the blizzard to the haven of

the heated building and hurried introductions by the officers there, Gus
became aware of a general unease coupled with the specific disability of
anyone to meet his eye.

“Is there something wrong?” he asked the Wing Commander in charge

of the base.

“I am afraid there is, sir. I would be hesitant about taking off an

aircraft in a storm like this, but it could be done, and the runways could
be cleared of snow now, no trouble there. But I am afraid that the wind,
gusting over a hundred miles an hour at times, has lifted and dropped, the
Wellington and damaged her, landing gear. Repairs are being made but I

do not think they will be done before midnight at the earliest.

We could still reach London in time, but if the storm continues

unabated, and Met office says it will, all the runways will be sealed by
then. It is the horns of the dilemma, sir, for which I beg your profound
pardon.“

Gus said something in return, he was not sure what, then accepted with

thanks a steaming mug of tea. He looked into it and saw failure and drank
deep of the bitterness of despair. The fliers sensed his mood and busied
themselves at other tasks to leave him in solitude. It was so damnably
frustrating! So close, so much effort, so much rising over circumstance
and fighting adversity, to be stopped at the last moment like this. The
forces of nature had balked him where sabotage had not. These bitter
thoughts possessed him so that he was scarcely aware of the room around
him and the officer who stood in front of him remained there for some
minutes before his physical presence made itself known. Washington
raised a face stamped with defeat until he became aware of the other man
and smoothed his features so his feelings did not show.

“I am Clarke, sir, Captain Clarke. Forgive me for intruding with what

may be, could be considered as, a suggestion.”

He was a thin man, slightly balding, wearing gold-rimmed glasses and

seemed most sincere. His voice still held the softness and rolled R’s of his
Devonshire youth though there was nothing of the rustic about him now.

“Please speak, Captain Clarke, for any suggestion is more than

welcome.

“If I might show you, it would perhaps be simpler. If you would follow

me.”

They went through a series of connecting passageways to another

building, for snow and blizzards were not unknown here at the best of
times and this device enabled free passage whatever the weather. They
were now in a laboratory of some sort with wires and electric apparatus
on benches, all dominated by a mass“ of dark-cased machinery that
covered one wall. Through glass windows set in the mahogany front of the
impressive machine, brass gears could be seen, as well as rods that turned
and spun. Clarke patted the smooth wood with undisguised affection.

“A Brabbage engine, one of the largest and most complex ever made.”

“Beautiful indeed!” Gus answered in sincere appreciation, forgetting for

the moment his great unhappiness.“I have never seen one this size before.
I suppose you have a large memory store?”

“More than adequate for our needs as you can see.” He opened a door

with a flourish to disclose serried banks of slowly turning silver disks, all of
them perforated with large numbers of small holes. Metal fingers riding
on rods brushed the surfaces of the disks, bobbing and clicking when they
encountered the openings. There was a continual soft metallic chatter
going on, along with some hissing and an occasional clatter. From this
welter of sound Clarke must have detected an inconsistency because he
cocked his head to one side, listening, then threw open the next panel and
seized an oil can from the bench behind them. “A fine device, although it
does need upkeep.” He dropped oil on the bearings of a cam follower
where it rode up and down on the smoothly formed and complex shape of
a brass analog cam. “They are making wholly electric Brabbage engines
now, calling them computers as if that made a difference, they are much
smaller but still filled with bugs. Give me good solid metal anytime,
although we do have trouble with backlash in the gear trains.”

“It is all very interesting…”

“Please excuse me, Washington, no excuse really, bit carried away,

dreadfully sorry.” He dropped the oil can, flustered, picked it up again,
restored it to the bench, closed the panels and pointed to a door across the
room. “If you please, now you’ve seen the Brabbage, right through here.
This may interest you more.”

It did indeed, for beyond the door was a great hangar, in the center of

which stood the tall, spearlike form of a rocket. Fifty feet or more it
reached up, six feet thick at the base, finned and sleek and stern, all of a
color, blue-black and striking.

“Black Knight, our best and most powerful rocket. Completely reliable

with a most efficient liquid fuel engine that burns kerosene mixed with
peroxide. Very delicate controls. Sends back a radio signal as it goes along
that is monitored by the Brabbage engine we have just seen, so that course
adjustments can be made in flight. Using this we have been most
successful in an experimental program that may soon become a standard
practice. Rocket mail, the Post Office is interested as you can well

imagine, between here and Croydon. They have one of the electric
computers there, pick up the signal as Black Knight comes over the
Atlantic and guide her in, cut engines and all that, bring her down by
parachute…” His voice ground to a halt as Washington turned slowly to
stare at him, fix him with a terrible gaze. When he spoke again it was
hurriedly, stumbling at times. “No, hear me out please, experimental
program, nothing more. Worked every time so far, mail got through, but
who knows. Tremendous acceleration. Kill a person dead perhaps. But
other experiments, sent a chimp last time, Daisy, sweet thing, in the
Regent’s Park Zoo right now, never seemed to phase her, ate a whole hand
of bananas when they took her out.”

“If you are saying what I think you are saying, Clarke, why then IS am

your man. If you would like «s volunteer to cross the ocean in your piece of
fireworks, then I have volunteered. But only if it gets me then by nine ia
the morning. Will it?” And indeed that Was what the Devonshire engineer
had in mind and the more he explained the more convinced Gus was that
victory might still be snatched from the already closing jaws of defeat. The
other engineers and the base commander were called in and they
conferred, London was contacted on the radio telephone and more
conferring was done until, in the end, there were none to say nay and the
yea-speakers “ were overwhelming in numbers and there was no choice
but to do this new and wonderful thing.

It was a labor to finish in the few hours that remained, but labor they

did. Outside the arctic storm howled and beat in impotent rage against
the buildings while inside they worked on the device that would vanquish
the storm, vanquish time and space and distance to send a man from the
new world to the old in a matter of some few minutes. The rocket was
fuelled and readied and all of its complex circuitry tested while, high
above, the mechanics labored to install the rubberised lining and to pump
in all the gallons of water that would be needed.

“That is the secret,” Clarke explained, eyes glistening with enthusiasm

behind the smudged lenses of his glasses. “Amniotic fluid, a secret known
to nature and there for the taking had we but the sense to know where to
look. But we have at last looked and seen and utilized this secret. As you
know 1-G is the force of gravity, gravity as we know it on the surface of the
Earth. Acceleration and gravity seem to be identical, or at least that’s
what that German chap Einstein who used to be at Oxford says, identical.
We accelerate and feel 2-G’s and are uncomfortable, 3-G’s and we suffer,

5-G’s, 6-G’s strange things happen, death and heart failure and blackouts,
very nasty. But, suspended in a liquid medium, we have had test subjects,
simians for the most part, subjected to 50-G’s and they survived in fine
fettle. So that is what we are doing how. A space-going womb, ha-ha, you
might call it.”

“Submerged all the way? I hope I won’t have to hold my breath?”

“That would be impossible… Oh, pulling my leg, Captain Washington?

Oh dear yes! No, indeed, quite comfortable. The water may be chill but
you will be wearing a wet suit with an oxygen mask. Quite comfortable
indeed.”

Comfortable was not exactly the correct word, Gus thought as helping

hands slipped him into the space-going bath. He dropped below the
surface and fastened the snaps to his belt as he had been instructed while
he breathed slowly and carefully through the mask. It was all quite
interesting though there was a moment of disquiet when the distorted
faces and hands above him vanished and the nose cone slid into place with
a resounding clang. The water carried all the sounds and he could hear the
clanking and grinding of metal al the bolts were secured. Then silence?!

This was the worst part, the waiting in the darkness and solitude.

Alone, alone as he had never been before in his life, perched atop this
column with its cargo of highly combustible fuel. Waiting. He could
visualize the roof opening up above the rollers, the preflight check-off, the
switches thrown. He had been told this would take a few minutes but had
not realized that his time perception would be thrown off to such a degree.
Had minutes passed—or hours? Had there been a failure, an accident?
Could he escape from here or would he die in a boiling pot atop a fiery
column? His imagination’s steamed along in high gear and had he been
able to speak he would have shouted aloud so great was the tension at this
moment.

And then a sound, a whine and al scream like the souls in the pit in

eternal agony. He felt the hair on his I neck stir before he realized that it
was just the high-speed pumps going! into operation, forcing the fuel into!
the combustion chamber. The flight was beginning! And at the instant he
realized that there was a distant rumble and roar that grew fantastically
until it beat at his ears so he had to cover them with his hand while
something unseen jumped on his chest and battered him down! Blast off!

For a long and unmeasurable time the pressure continued—then

suddenly ceased as the engines shut down. The rocket was coasting. In
those eternity-long minutes while the engines were working they had
burned their way up through the storm and penetrated the atmosphere
above and the stratosphere above that until now they were beyond the last
traces of airy envelope of the Earth and arcing through the vacuum of
space. The Atlantic was a hundred, two hundred miles below them and
ahead was England. And the waiting computer at the airport in Croydon,
that sleepy little suburb of London, an electric Brabbage engine that was
not as reliable as the mechanical one and he hoped that, at least this once,
the enthusiastic Captain Clarke would prove to be wrong about the
reliability of that machine.

Yet as they coasted his heartbeat slowed and he felt a measure of peace

and even good cheer. Fail or succeed, this was a voyage that would be
remembered, almost a modern version of that romantic novel by the
Frenchman about a voyage around the world in eighty days using all forms
of transportation. Well here he was, utilizing some forms of transportation
that the redoubtable M. Verne had never dreamed existed. This game was
certainly worth the candle. It was in this reposed state of mind that he felt
the engine re-ignite and so composed was he that he smiled at the
thought. Dropping now, over Surrey and down, steering, pointing, falling
and at the last moment the crack of the released parachute. There was a
sudden jar that might well have been that parachute opening and,soon
after another and, what he was sure was a cessation of motion. Had he
arrived?

Evidence came swiftly. There was a clank and a bump, then another

one and once again the grinding of metal. In a moment the nose cone
above him vanished from sight and blurred faces appeared in its place
against the brilliant blue of the sky. Of course! He had flown into daylight
in the swiftness of his voyage. He rose up and pushed his face above the
surface of the water and tore off the mask and smelled the sweetness of the
warm air. A smiling face, bad teeth in that wide grin and a spanner in the
matching hand, looked down, while next to this face a sterner one below a
blue official cap and a square of cardboard next to that.

“Her Majesty’s Customs, sir. You have seen this card which lists

contraband and dutiable items. Do you have anything to declare?”

“Nothing. I have no baggage.” Strong hands helped him out to the top

of the wheeled platform that rested against the tall rocket. A view of white
concrete, green trees beyond, a waiting group of men, distant cheers. He
turned to the Customs officer.

“Might I ask you the time?”

“Just gone a quarter to nine, sir.” Was there time? How far to the

station in London? Ten, twelve miles at least. Pushing away the helping
hands he scrambled to the ladder and half slid to the ground, stumbling at
the bottom and turning to see a familiar bulky form before him.

“Fighting Jack!”

“Himself. Now hurry and you like’t‘make it yet. There are clothes in

here.” He thrust a paper parcel into Gus’s hands while hurrying him
forward at the same time towards an unusual vehicle that was backing
towards them.

“That there driver is Lightning Luigi Lambretta who is a good driver,

even though a Wog. Now get in and away with you.”

“A pleasure to meet you, signore,” the driver said as Gus dropped into

the empty cockpit and felt the seat slam into his back the instant he was
down. “This car the winner of the Mille Miglia, so not to worry. Due cento,
two hundred of your horsepowers, like the wind we shall go.
Steam-powered turbine, fuelled with gasoline and using Freon as the
vaporizing fluid. The polizia out and roads cleared all the way to Putney
Bridge and beyond. A nice day for the drive.”

They roared, they raced, they dived down the road with a squeal of

complaining rubber as they sideslipped and skidded broadside into the
London Road at over a hundred miles an hour. Quick glimpses of bobbies
holding back the crowds, flags waved, a holiday air to everything.
Squirming in the tiny seat Gi managed to slip out of the wet and the
slipstream grabbed it and whisked it from sight. He was more careful as
he opened the parcel drew out small-clothes, shirt, tie lounge suit and
sturdy boots below all this. It was an exhausting effort to get them on, but
don them he did and even knotted his tie fairly adequately.

“The time?” he shouted.

“One minute past the nine.”

“Then I have failed…”

“Not yet, signore.” Roaring at one hundred thirty-five miles an hour

onto Putney Bridge. “Things are arranged, I have talked by the phone, all
of England is on your side, the Queen herself. She was delayed leaving
Buckingham Palace, marvelous woman, and now she proceeds most
sedately by the horse and carriage to the station. All is not lost yet.”

Would he succeed? Would failure follow this heroic effort? It was now

in the hands of the gods and it was to be hoped that they were smiling.
Brake, accelerate, squeal of rubber, broadside through the narrow streets,
a twist of the wheel to save the life of a stray dog, around another corner
and there was the station. Down the ramp towards the platform, the State
Coach to one side, empty.

The train, pulling out.

“Never fear, dottore. Lightning Luigi will not fail you!”

Laughing wildly and twisting his fierce mustachios with one hand the

intrepid driver hurtled his blood-red machine at the platform while the
officials and bystanders scattered, raced up to the train, alongside of it,
easing over until his offside wheel was only inches from the platform edge,
matching his speed to that of the train and holding it steady and even
close to the open door.

“If you would please to disembark, signore, the end of the platform fast

approaches.”

In the instant Gus was standing on the seat, standing on the rounded

top of the racing car and bracing himself with a hand on the driver’s head,
reaching out for the extended hand from the train, grabbing it, leaping,
looking back horrified as the driver stood on his brakes and slid and
twisted and slammed into the pillars at the station’s end. But he was
waving and shouting happily from the smoking wreck.

“This way, sir,” said the porter. “Your seat has been reserved.”

II. POINT 200

Green England hurtled by outside, fields and streams like speeding

patchwork quilts, blue rivers that swept under their wheels, black bridges

and gray stone villages nestled around church spires, also in motion, also
whisking by to quickly vanish along with the waving crowds in the fields
and the rearing horses and barking dogs. It seemed that the entire
countryside was unrolling for the benefit of the lucky travelers in this
mighty train this fortunate day, for so smooth was the ride that the
passengers aboard the Flying Cornishman felt that they were indeed
standing still and the whole of England was spinning by beneath them for
their edification alone.

They were indeed a blessed few who had secured passage in this

inaugural run of the tunnel train, nonstop London to Point 200, the
artificial island far out in the Atlantic Ocean, west of Ireland, and over a
hundred miles from the nearest shore. The Queen was aboard, and Prince
Philip, while the Prince of Wales also had returned by special train from
Moscow where he was on a state visit to make the trip. There was a
sprinkling of the nobility and the Proper Names, but not as many as might
be expected at the Derby or a fashionable opening, for this was science’s
day, the triumph of technology, so that the members of the Royal
Academy outnumbered those of the House of Lords. The company
directors were there as well as the largest financial backers, and a
well-known actress whose liaison with one of these backers explained her
presence.

There was champagne, bottles of it, cases of it, oh dear—a refrigerated

room full of it, courtesy of The Transatlantic Tunnel Company who had
bought almost the entire stock of an excellent 1965 from a lesser known
but superior chateau. This golden liquid flowed like a river of beneficence
through the corridors and compartments where glasses were lifted and
toasts drunk to the glory of this hour, the superiority of British
engineering, the strength of the pound, the stability of the Empire, the
peace of the world, the greatness of this day.

Aboard as well, in sorely diminished ranks, was the press, thinned

down by the exigencies of seating space, swollen again by the need for
complete world coverage for this historical event. One cameraman was
filming everything for the entire world to see at the same time on their
television sets, though of course B.B.C. viewers would see it first, while the
world papers would have to be satisfied with what the gentleman from
Reuters told them, other than the French that is, who would read what
was written by a small dark gentleman, pushed to the rear by his bulkier
Anglo-Saxon colleagues, who was aboard though by bribery for which at

least one head would roll in Transatlantic House. Of course the gentleman
from The Times was there, since the kind attentions of the Thunderer of
Printing House Square were much sought after, and a few other leading
journals including, with much reluctance and persistent insistence since
this was going to be a transatlantic tunnel, the square-shouldered bulk of
the New York Times‘ man.

They all wanted to talk to Washington at once, because he was the most

singular piece of news aboard for the readers around the world who had
been following every thrilling and heart-stopping detail of his journey.
Now, on the last leg, with the finish line but a few hours away they wanted
him to describe all of the earlier stages down to the smallest detail.
Between sips of champagne he answered them, relivüng the heartstopping
moment aboard the helithopter and the rocket, the mad ride to London,
the last moment arrival. He was in formed in turn that the driver, Lam
bretta, had received only minor bruises and regretted nothing, was in fact,
enthused that one of the more popular dailies had already purchased his
personal story for a price reputed to be in five figures.

Every foot of the journey to Penzance, Gus was interviewed, and he was

rescued only by the fact that the journalists had to file their stories Since
they would have tied up completely the only telephone and telegraph link
from the train they had been forbidden access to them, with the exception
of the gentleman from The Times who had been permitted to file one brief
report, so arrangements had been made to put off bag in Penzance. The
great canvass sack, boldly labeled PRESS, was quickly filled with the
reports and stories and the can of film put in on top. Other arrangements
of an ingenious nature had been made as well so that the various reporters
now dispersed to complete the work. Fast cars were waiting by certain
fields displaying flags of particular colors, ready to pick up dropped
containers, one motorcyclist on a racing machine paralleled the train
briefly on a stretch of road and was seen to end up in a pond still clutching
a hoop and attached package he had seized, while more than one
net-armed and speedy boat waited in waters the train would cross.

Free of his interviewers for the moment, Gus found his compartment

and his allotted seat, which he now saw for the first time, and accepted
the congratulations and another glass of champagne from the other
passengers there. At this point he escaped their attention for the train was
slowing as they passed through Penzance where the waiting thousands
cheered uproariously and waved their Union Jacks with such animation

that they fluttered like gaudy birds. The Press bag was thrown to the
platform and the attendant telegraph men, the train picked up speed
again, through the city and towards the dark mouth of the tunnel, passing
the sidings where the other trains waited, packed with humanity, to follow
after the inaugural run. Faster and faster it went to dive with a roar into
the black opening, accompanied by excited female shrieks at the sudden
night.

Gus, who had been in a tunnel before, closed his eyes when they entered

and when the others had exhausted the pleasures of gazing out at nothing
and turned back he was well and soundly asleep. They appreciated his
fatigue after the voyage he had just accomplished and lowered their voices
accordingly so that he slept the sleep of the just, and they only roused him
when the announcement was made that they were just ten minutes from
arrival at Point 200.

An air of electric excitement overwhelmed the travelers and even the

most cynical and worldly-wise were . possessed by it, peering out at the
darkness, getting up and sitting down again, and generally displaying an
eagerness they would normally have scorned. Slower and slower the great
train went until a grayness could be seen ahead and then, startling and
sudden, a burst of brilliant sunlight as they emerged from the tunnel into
the open air. Through the empty train yard and over the points they
rumbled to the station where the waiting band struck up the lively tune of
“A Transatlantic Tunnel, Hurrah!,” the song specially commissioned for
this occasion from Sir Bruce Montgomery and now having its debut
performance.

Wide and clean and spacious this station was, and seemingly empty of

life until the passengers poured from the train, oohing and ahhing at the
appointments. For the top of the station, high above, was constructed
entirely of large panes of glass through which blue sky and soaring gulls
could be seen. This was supported by cast-iron columns enameled white
and decorated at the junctions and on the capitals by iron fish and squid
and whales cunningly cast into the fabric of the supports themselves.
These configurations were finished in blue, and this color scheme of white
and blue was carried on throughout the great station giving it an airy and
light feeling out of all proportion to its size.

The passengers held back respectfully as the red carpet was brought up

and unrolled and the Queen and her party descended. There was the quick

flashing of lights from the photographers and then they had gone and the
others followed.

No one, no matter how stern of demeanor or inflexible of expression,

but failed to hesitate for a moment and to draw in a gasp of breath upon
emerging from the station between the alabaster columns that supported
the portico. For here was a vista that was breath-catching and inspiring, a
wholly new thing come into the world. Broad white steps descended to a
promenade that glistened and shone with the multihued splendor of the
inlaid mosaics, arches and waves and wriggling bands of color not unlike
those of the promenade at Copacabana Bay which undoubtedly had no
small influence upon their design.

Just beyond this was a field, a rolling meadow of the trimmest and

greenest grass that sloped down gently to the deep blue of the ocean
beyond that was now breaking with small waves upon the shore. No
flotsam or refuse marred the purity of this ocean so far from any shore, no
land was visible at any distance in any direction where only the white
wings of the yachts scudding across the surface broke the perfect
emptiness. Once the visitor descended these steps there were greater
wonders to come, for this promenade followed the shore of this new island
and with every step forward there was something incredible to see.

First a great hotel stretching long wings into a flower-filled garden

below and rising in matched, blue-domed towers high into the air. On the
terrace here the orchestra played a dance tune to tempt passersby to the
linened tables where black garbed waiters stood ready to pour tea. There
was a holiday air about this spot and along the promenade, a holiday
holding its breath in the wings and waiting to arrive, for all of this was
ready and had never been , used before, brought in by sea and constructed
here in all optimism that, custom would follow when the tunnel was
opened. Restaurants and, dance halls, and tucked away behind! the
elegant establishments, little lanes that led to fun fairs and roundabouts
and ferris wheels, coconut shies and public houses, something for
everyone. Further along were the beaches of white sand thai glistened
welcome and soon the first bathers could be seen, stepping hesitantly into
the water then shouting in amazement for here, in the middle of the Gulf
Stream, the water was warm and salubrious as it never was at Brighton or
Blackpool.

Behind the beaches rose the turrets and towers of Butlin’s 200 Holiday

Camp waiting impatiently for all who had booked in, the loud-speakers
already calling the first ar-rivals to the heady pleasures of group
amusements. And more and more, until the eyes of the strollers were filled
with the color and panoply. Farther on, around the island, there was the
yacht basin, already jolly with the jostling boats that had sailed here for
this grand opening day, and still farther along a tree-crowned hill where
the promenade ended in an outdoor bowl where a Greek drama, ideal for
this pastoral setting, was about to begin. All was pleasure to the eye and so
it had been designed, for the hill shielded from view the other half of the
is-land where the industrial park, rail-way sidings, and commercial docks
were located. Great things were planned for Point 200 and the
trans-atlantic tunnel and the investors had flocked to its proffered charms.
It was indeed a wonderful day.

Washington enjoyed the stroll and the sight of the colorful activity just

as well as did the shopkeeper from Hove or the lord from his castle,
walking and mingling with them along the way. Tired finally he repaired
to the great hotel, The Transatlantic Towers, where a room had been
reserved for him. His bag, sent on ahead weeks ago, had been opened and
unpacked, while the table was banked with flowers and congratulatory
telegrams. He read a few then put them aside, feeling let down after the
fury of the preceding hours, sipped from the champagne provided by the
management and went to his bath. Soon after, feeling refreshed and in
better sorts, he donned a lightweight silk tropical suit, more fitting for this
clime than his tweeds, and was just fixing his cravat when the telephone
chimed. He took it from the drawer, put the microphone on the table
before him and the receiver to his ear and threw the small switch which
activated it. The familiar voice of Drigg, Lord Cornwall’s‘s secretary,
spoke, congratulating him on his voyage and extending the marquis’s
invitation that he join them on the terrace at his convenience.

“I will be there shortly,” Gus said, disconnecting the instrument,

putting a flower in his buttonhole, and drinking one last glass of
champagne in preparation for the encounter.

It was a small and elite group that was gathered there on the secluded

balcony overlooking the sea, taking the late afternoon sun and basking in
the balmiest of breezes. A sideboard spread with regimented bottles
enabled them to help themselves to whatever drink they chose without a
waiter to interrupt their privacy. If a pang of hunger should stir them, a
great crystal bowl of Beluga caviar rested in cracked ice for their

edification. Above the sideboard there hung in stately display a detailed
map of the North Atlantic with the route of their tunneling ventures
scribed upon it. From time to time one or the other of the men would look
at it and usually smile at that heartening sight.

Sir Isambard Brassey-Brunel sat with coat open and his waistcoat half

unbuttoned, an unusual relaxing of sartorial standards for him, and
sniffed from time to time at the sweetness of the sea breeze and taking
small sips from his glass of Perrier water. Across from him Lord
Cornwallis relaxed with a slightly more fortifying drink of Hennessy Seven
Star of an unbelievable vintage, varying his attention between this and a
Jamaican cigar of impressive length and girth and superior whiteness of
ash.

Sir Winthrop Rockefeller considered the hour too early for such

spirituous beverages so sipped instead from a glass of claret with the
bottle placed handily beside it. All three men were composed and given
almost entirely to small talk, basking in the relief of a job well done before
turning their energies to the next task ahead. For all of the news was good,
they had nothing to fault, it was indeed a splendid day.

When Augustine Washington was shown in they rose by common

consent and the handclasps that were exchanged were those of mutual
acclaim. They did congratulate the young engineer on the success of his
voyage that so dramatized the opening of this new age Of tunnel travel,
and he in turn thanked the financiers for making everything possible, and
the older engineer for the design and labor that had enabled the tunnel to
be done at all. Sir Isambard nodded at this tribute, aware of. what was his
rightful due and, after they had seated themselves and Gus had accepted a
glass of wine from Sir Winthorp’s bottle, composed himself to speak about
a matter he had long considered.

“Washington, we have been estranged long enough. Our personal

differences have not prevented us from doing our best for the company,
but I do feel that the past is now so much water over the dam and it is
time to let bygones be bygones. Rockefeller here is chairman of the
American Board again and I want to state before these gentlemen that you
have done an excellent job with the American tunnel.” He sipped from his
glass for a few moments while the two other gentlemen cried hear, hear!
with great enthusiasm, then resumed. “When I am wrong I freely admit it,
and now I admit that the technique of preforming and sinking tunnel

sections is not as dangerous as normally assumed and is indeed faster as
you have proven. It has been utilized in completion of the tunnel we
passed through today as proof of this assumption. It is my hope that we
shall be able to work together more closely in the future and, in addition,
you will find yourself welcome in my house once more.”

This latter bit of information took Gus by surprise for he started from

his chair, then sank back again, and a slight pallor touched his skin, proof
that this casual piece of social intelligence caused more stir in his
constitution than the most severe of the hazards through which he had so
recently passed. However he took some of the wine and when he spoke
next he appeared as composed as ever.

“I accept this news and this invitation with the most profound thanks,

sir, because, as you must know, I still consider you the leading engineer
and builder of our age and it is my pleasure to work under you. It will also
be my pleasure to call at your home. And your daughter is at home, I
presume…”

“Iris is well, and she accompanied me on this trip, and I presume will

make you welcome as well, but I do not discuss this sort of thing with her.
Now to other and new business. Though today is a success, tomorrow will
surely come with its problems and we must prepare for it. The two units of
the tunnel now completed are important and will, if the figures I have seen
are correct prognostications, earn money in their own right. Point 200
will soon grow to a major and most modern port where goods bound for
England can be offloaded and sent ahead by train, quickly and surely, thus
avoiding the Channel traffic and the outmoded facilities of the Port of
London. I believe we have witnessed its other success today as a spa and
resort. On the far side of the Atlantic the Grand Banks Station will
perform like functions, in addition to which the fishing fleets will unload
their catches there for rapid transport of fresh fish to the colonies. All well
and good but we must press on and justify the name of this company. We
must cross the Atlantic. The preliminary surveys and reports are done,
now is the time to finalize and put them into action.”

There were warm shouts of agreement at this, for they were all as eager

as he to see this mighty project through to completion. Financing, of
course, would be the next consideration and the two chairmen of the
transatlantic Boards of Directors rose and spoke in turn about the state of
their treasuries. In fine they were healthy as bull pups. The recent

improvement in the States of their national economies, that might very
well be traced to the tunnel operations, had left considerable profits in a
number of hands and eager money was waiting to be invested. That the
nods of agreement were not quadrilateral was not noticed in the warmth
of their enthusiasm, there seemed nothing standing in their way.

But Gus grimly fingered the stem of his glass, looking up betimes at the

map on the wall, then down at the surface of his wine as though some
important revelation was drowned in its depths. He seemed at internal
battle within himself, as indeed he was, for a door had opened again this
day that had been closed for many a year and for this he would be
eternally grateful. But what he had to say might very well close that door
again—yet he could not leave this place without speaking, for it was
scientific fact that he must mention.

And so the war of heart and head was fought within and, silent as this

battle was, it was more terrible and devastating than any conflict of shell
or bomb. In the end he came to a conclusion for he drew himself up,
drained the prognosticatory glass of wine, and waited for an opportunity
to speak. This came soon enough as the financial details were resolved and
the engineering programs came to the fore. He gained the floor and
crossed to the map where he traced the proposed course of the tunnel with
a steady finger.

“Gentlemen, you all realize that the longest and most arduous portion

of our labor now lies before us. Sir Isambard has proposed a radical form
of transportation in these sections of our tunnel and research has proven
that his genius was correct. The evacuated linear electric line will add a
new dimension to transportation in the future.”

“Forgive my interruption,” said Cornwallis, “but I’m not quite sure that

I understand the operation of this thing and I would be deeply grateful if
you could explain it in some manner that would enable me to grasp it.
Though I can wend my way through the intricacies of international
finance I must admit that my head grows thick at the mention of electrons
and allied objects.”

“Nonsense, Charles, I’ve told you a dozen times how the blasted thing

works,” Sir Isambard broke in, quite warmly. “Let’s get on with the affairs
at hand.”

“Please, an explanation first, if you don’t mind,” said Sir Winthrop,

with some gratitude. “I am happy to see I am not alone in my ignorance,
which was causing me some concern. If you would, Washington.”

Sir Isambard subsided, grumbling at this outrageous waste of time,

draining a reckless draft of his spring water, so annoyed was he. Gus took
this as assent and explained.

“The theories behind the proposals are quite complex, but there is no

need to go into that since the results can be simply understood. Think of
the tunnel, if you will, as an immense length of pipe, solid and integral.
There is air in this pipe at the same pressure as most air upon the surface
of this world, that is in the neighborhood of some fifteen pounds to the
square inch. This air serves only one function, that of permitting the
passengers in the trains to breathe, an important fact to the passengers
but of no importance to the engineering of the tunnel. These few pounds of
pressure add nothing to the structural strength of the tunnel walls to keep
out the immense pressures of the ocean above, and from the engineering
point of view the air is, in fact, a handicap because it limits and retards
the speed of the trains. Remove the air, an easy thing to do, and the trains
would go faster while using less power.”

“But the people, sir, our passengers, they must breathe!”

“And breathe they will-for the trains will be sealed and pressurized just

like high-altitude aircraft. With the air removed we can now consider
higher speeds than were ever possible before. Why there is no reason why
our trains cannot go eight, nine hundred—even a thousand miles an hour.”

“Wheels and bearings will not sustain such speeds.”

“Perfectly correct, Sir Winthrop, which leads us to the next stage. A

train with no wheels. This train will literally float in the air as powerful
magnets in the train are repelled by equally powerful magnets in the track.
We have all seen how one magnet will support another in midair upon its
repelling field, and thusly will our train ride in its evacuated tunnel. But
what will move our train? And here is the genius of Sir Isambard’s answer.

“The train will move by means of a linear traction engine. I shall not

explain this complex invention, but suffice to say it is like an electric
motor turned inside out with one part of the motor aboard the train and
the other stretched on the roadbed the length of the tunnel with no
physical connection needed, or wanted, between them. In addition, most

of the train’s speed will be derived by its dropping off the edge of the
continental shelf and falling the three miles down to the abyssal plain on
the ocean’s bottom. And there you have it, gentlemen, a sealed train in an
evacuated tube, floating in mid tunnel and touching nothing physical,
even molecules of air, being started on its way by gravity and continuing
by electricity. A form of transportation as modern as the entire concept of
the tunnel itself.”

There were sighs of relief from the financiers and a few questions to

clear up certain points so that when Gus continued he had the informed
and knowledgeable attention of his small audience.

“As has been demonstrated we now have our means of transportation

and the preforming technique to lay the tunnel. The final step, before
detailed surveying and construction begins, is the selection of the route to
be followed. Because of the complex nature of the ocean’s floor, great care
must be taken at this point, for the bottom of the Atlantic is no sandy
lagoon that may be slashed directly across. Hardly! What we have here is a
varied landscape more complex and drastic than the one we know on the
drier surfaces of our globe. There are, of course, the abyssal plains that
form the bottom, lying at an average depth of sixteen thousand feet below
the ocean’s surface, but other features must be taken into consideration.

“Down the center of the ocean runs the Mid-Atlantic Ridge, a great

mountain chain that is in reality a double row of mountains with the
gorge of the Rift Valley between them. These mountain ranges and the Rift
Valley are crossed at right angles by immense canyons called fracture
zones that resemble wrinkles in the Earth’s hide. Other features also
concern us, the Mid-Ocean Canyon, like an underwater riverbed on the
ocean’s floor, seamounts and islands and trenches—that is, extraordinarily
deep gulfs—such as this one, on the map here, that is over five miles in
depth.

“And there are more factors to consider, underwater earthquakes and

vulcanism which are concentrated in specific areas for the most part, the
very high temperatures of the sea bottom near the Rift Valley as well as
the fact that the sea bottom here is moving as the continents drift apart at
the rate of about two inches a year. It appears, and the geologists confirm
the suspicion, that hew matter rises from the Earth’s interior in the Rift
Valley and spreads outwards at that steady rate. All problems, gentlemen,
but none of them problems that cannot be surmounted.

“You will note the proposed route on this map which avoids these

enumerated obstacles. If we begin here at Point 200 on the edge of the
Continental Shelf, our tunnel proceeds roughly north northwest along the
fracture zone we call 41-G that join the end of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge and
the offset Reykjanes Ridge south of Iceland. By doing this we avoid the
peril of crossing the Rift Valley which ceases to exist at this point. Now,
further west, we emerge from the fracture zone and turn south, skirting
the Mid-Ocean Canyon and swinging around the heights of the Milne
Seamount until we reach the Sohm Abyssal Plain. At this point the tunnel
will turn almost due north to rise up the Laurentian Cone to meet the
tunnel already laid on the Continental Shelf at the Grand Banks Station.
Now this route might be said to have a few faults.”

There was a rumble like a distant storm from Sir Isambard’s direction

that Gus chose to ignore as he continued.

“Since the ocean bed is so warm in the fracture zone special tunnel

sections will be laid on the bed itself, not in a trench, and constructed in
such a manner that water will circulate through cavities in them to keep
them cool. However the major criticism might be that, in order to avoid
all the geological details, the tunnel will be twice as long as it would be if it
went in a direct manner, therefore twice as costly.”

“Good God, man,” Sir Isambard exploded. “We have been over this

before and you know we can’t go directly across the infernal ocean. So
what are you suggesting?”

There was a hushed silence as Gus took a sheet of paper from his

pocket and unfolded it, gulls could be heard crying outside and the strains
of the orchestra playing in the distance, but all was listening quiet on the
balcony.

“That is just what I am suggesting,” said Gus, with a positive sure-ness.

“And I intend to show you how. I propose that the tunnel go due south
from Point 200, over the flat bed of the Biscay Abyssal Plain to a base in
the archipelago of the Azores, where it will meet the other leg of the tunnel
that has come almost due east from the Grand Banks along the
Oceanographer Fracture Zone. This route is less than half the length of the
one under consideration now and, in addition, will provide an unexpected
benefit. Cargo can be unloaded in the Azores base to be loaded on ships
for Africa and the Continent, thereby shortening the voyage greatly. Plus
the fact that another leg of the tunnel can eventually be considered from

the Azores to Spain that will make a train connection between the
Continent and the Americas. If this is done the results will be simply
amazing.

“It will then be possible for a passenger to board a train at the Pacific

port of Provideniya at the end of the Trans-Siberian Railroad and thence
to proceed by train across Siberia, Russia and Europe, under the Atlantic,
across America and connect with the Trans-Canada Railroad to Alaska
there, to finish his journey once more on the shores of the Pacific. After a
journey around at least ninety-nine percent of the Earth’s circumference
at this point.”

At this juncture there were shouted questions and eager enthusiasm for

more information about this novel idea until Sir Isambard hammered
with his fist for silence.

“A mad dream, nothing more. Or rather it would be possible were it not

for the aforementioned Mid-Atlantic Ridge with the Rift Valley which, I
believe, is at least one mile wide and a number of miles deep at this point.
It cannot be crossed. The plan is discarded.”

“Not so. The valley can be crossed and I have the plan for that

procedure in my hand. It will be crossed, gentlemen, by an underwater
bridge.”

Into the following silence Sir Isambard’s snort of contempt burst like a

trumpet peal. “Nonsense, sir! Poppycock and nonsense! A bridge cannot
be built a mile long that will support the weight of the tunnel sections at
this depth.”

“You are correct, sir, it cannot. That is why this bridge will have

negative buoyancy, a thing our tunnel sections have in any case until we
weight them down, so it will float over the canyon, secured in place by
heavy cables.”

This time the silence was absolute as Gus snapped open his plan and

put it before them, explaining how the bridge would be made and how,
since it floated, it could absorb the two-inch-a-year movement of its
opposite ends, and all the other details of his new proposal. For every
question asked he had an answer and it soon became obvious that, unless
unknown factors were thought up, this plan was far superior to the earlier
one in every way.

Long before this became clear to the others it was realized by Sir

Isambard who parted the table and stood, arms folded, staring out at the
setting sun. When the others had exhausted their words and enthusiasm
and stopped for breath he turned and fixed Gus with a gaze the coldness
of which outdid the most frigid blast of arctic night.

“You have done this deliberately, Washington, produced your plan to

supersede mine in an attempt to obtain some gain.”

“Never sir! You have my word…”

“There is no doubt this design, or a variation of it, will be adopted,” the

redoubtable man continued, unheeding of the interruption. “The tunnel
will be built to the Azores and you will get the credit I am sure. Since I put
the good of the tunnel above my own ambition I will continue working as I
have done in the past. But for you, sir, personally, sir, I have little regard.
Please be informed that you will no longer be a welcome guest in my
house.”

Gus was nodding even before the other had finished, for it had been?

foreordained.

“I was sure of that from the beginning,” said he, a weight of unspoken

feelings in these simple words. “I have nothing but good feelings for you,
sir, nor do I intend to do you injury in any way. I wish that you would
believe me when I say that I have put the good of the tunnel ahead of any
personal advancement for myself. Therefore, in the light of your remarks, I
have no choice other than to resign from my position in the Transatlantic
Tunnel Company and leave their employ. If my presence is a disconcerting
one and interferes with the completion of this great work, then I will
remove that presence.”

His remarks, though spoken in a quiet voice, brought a stunned silence

to the others in the room, though only for a few moments to Sir Isambard.

“Resignation accepted. You may leave.”

This further paralyzed the verbal apparatus of the two men of finance

so that Gus had actually risen from his chair and was on his way to the
door before Lord Cornwallis could speak.

“Washington, a moment if you please. We must not be unilateral,,

matter of precedence, full consideration, blast me, I am not sure what! to
make of all this.” With an effort he assembled his fractured thoughts“ and
sought for some form of compromise even at this last moment, ”We have
heard your suggestion and must consider it, since, Sir Isambard, with all
due respect, you cannot speak for all the members of both Boards or even
for myself or Winthorp. What I would suggest, what I do suggest, sir, is
that we here consider what must be done and will then inform you of any
decisions reached. If you would tell us where you could be reached at the
end of our conference, Captain Washington?“

“I will be in my room.”

“Very good. We will contact you as soon as there are any results to our

deliberations.”

Gus left then and the heavy door closed behind him with a powerful

clack of the latch and a certain positive finality.

III. A BRIEF ENCOUNTER

On all sides cheer and goodwill abounded, tastefully clad couples and

groups talked animatedly, friends called to one another with hearty voices,
bellboys darted through the press in the lobby with messages and
telegrams undoubtedly all of a happy, wholesome nature, and such a flood
of good spirits encompassed them all that it must surely have lapped up
and out of the windows and across the pavement bringing smiles as it
went and causing even the gulls on the balustrades to cry with joy. Yet
through this ocean of cheer one dark vessel plunged, a man with an aura
of great unhappiness about him, cut off and alone, architect of all these
glories, and now, in the hour of triumph, set apart from all those who
enjoyed the fruits of his labors.

Washington was too depressed to be depressed, too numb for feelings,

even miserable ones, lie wafted steadily and calmly with a grave, exterior
which in no way indicated the depths of unplumbed unhappiness within
him, for the tunnel had be, come his life and without it he felt an empty
shell. He was tempted to be bitter towards himself, yet if he had it to do
over again he knew he would do the same. The improved route must be
used. If saving the tunnel meant a loss in his personal life, then it must be
done. Occupied like this, in the darkest of dark studies, he plowed through
the crowd to a berth before the lift doors and waited for them to open, and
open they did, quickly enough, for this lift was powered by hydraulics with

a piston sunk into a cylinder deep in the ground, and he stepped aside so
the single occupant could emerge, face to face with him, a chance of fate, a
roll of some celestial die that determined that the occupant should be
none other than the lady so recently mentioned, Sir Isambard’s daughter
Iris.

“Iris,” said he, and could say no more for to his eyes her face and

elegantly garbed form were enclosed in a golden nimbus that made
detailed vision difficult.

“You’re looking older, Gus,” said she with the eminently more practical

vision of a woman. “Though I must say that touch of gray to your hair
does add something.” But, practical as she was, it could not be denied
that, sure as her voice had been when she started to speak, there was a
certain indeterminate waver to it before she had done. At this all
conversation ceased and they stood, simply looking at each other for long
moments until the boy who operated the lift piped up.

“Lift going up, your honor, all floors if you please.”

With this they stepped aside so others could enter and in that bustle of

humanity they were as alone as they might be in a rushing sea. She was as
radiant as she ever had been, Gus realized, more beautiful if that were
possible with the new grace of maturity. His eyes moved of their own
accord down her left arm to her hand and fingers, but there any revelatory
vision was blocked by the kid-skin gloves she wore. But she was well aware
of his gaze and its import and she smiled in answer.

“No ring, Gus. I still live with my father, very quietly.”

“I have just left him and we have talked. We had most friendly words

and then, I am afraid, most harsh ones.”

“My father in all truth.”

“The friendly ones encompassed an invitation to make myself a guest at

his home again. The harsh ones…”

“You shall tell me of them later, for just the first will do for now.” With

simple foresight she knew that this moment, brief as it might be, must be
clutched at and abstracted from the flow of time. What came after would
arrive speedily enough, but the passport to social intercourse granted by

her father had to be seized and utilized. “Is there no place we can sit for a
few moments?”

“I know the very spot,” answered Gus, knowing nothing of the sort, but

also now aware that here was an opportunity that might be grasped and,
therefore, clutching at it with both hands. He excused himself for the
moment and addressed one of the functionaries of the establishment who
was stationed nearby, and if a sum of money changed hands this was to
hurry the arrangements, which it apparently did, for they were led without
further ado to a secluded alcove at the rear of one of the dining rooms
where an attendant waiter vanished as soon he had taken their order and
filled it with unusual speed. No tea this time, as on their last meeting, for
Iris had reached her majority in the meanwhile and was one of the new
brand of liberated women who drank in public places. She had a Tio Pepe
sherry while he perforce had a double brandy.

“To your good health, Iris.”

“And to yours, which needs it more since you seem to treat health and

life with a very cavalier attitude.”

“This last trip? It was necessary and there was little risk.”

“Risk enough to one who sits in the quiet of a London room and waits

for the reports.”

“You are still concerned about me?”

“I still love you.”

The words were spoken with such sincerity and truth that they bridged

the gap of years as though these years had never existed, they had never
been parted. His hand found hers, eagerly waiting, and pressed it beneath
the table.

“And I have never stopped loving you, not one moment of the time. May

the waiting be ended now. I still carry your ring, here, and have always
hoped that I could return it to you some day.”

“And can you now?”

The loosening of his touch, the moving away of his hand from hers told

her more surely than any words could what was to be.

“I can, only if you will break with your father.”

“The harsh words you spoke of. Yes, I suppose you must repeat them

now, though I wish to heaven I did not have to hear them.” With this she
drained her glass and her cheeks glowed with the drink and the power of
her feelings. Gus admired her in silence before he spoke again, knowing
there was none like her on the face of the globe, knowing he would never
love another.

“I have proposed certain changes in the tunnel that will modify and

even alter drastically parts, of your fathers plan. We are of different
opinions regarding the changes. He feels, and perhaps it is true, that my
modifications of his work are a personal attack and after offering me the
courtesy of his home he has withdrawn it. That’s where matters now
stand.” No power on Earth could have dragged from him the admission at
this point that he had also resigned from the tunnel, since this would be
crude playing upon her sympathies.

“They stand there indeed and stand very crookedly I must say. Ring for

another drink, if you please, because it is not every girl who sees her
dreams restored and dashed again all in the space of a few brief minutes.”

When she had her sherry and had touched it to her lips he spoke the

question that meant the most to him.

“Must they be dashed? You are past twenty-one now and your own

person. Would you marry me despite your father’s displeasure?”

“Dear Gus, I would if but I could. But I must stay by him.”

“But why? Can you give me any reason?”

“Yes, one, and I tell you only because you should know that I do this not

from any lack of love for you, but because I have a certain duty. My
mother is dead, as you know, my two brothers engineers like yourself and
always far away. I am the only one he has. What I say now is in strictest
confidence, known only to myself and his physician, some trusted servants.
My father is not a well man. Oh, I know he bombasts and roars and carries
on as he always did, but the years have exacted their toll. He has had a
heart attack, a serious one, so serious he lay between life and death for

days. Now I must look after him and smooth everything in his way that I
can because the physician says the next one will be fatal, he is almost
certain of that. If I left him, went against his will, I would be killing him as
surely as if I pulled a trigger.”

After that there was nothing that could be added. They sat in silence for

a few moments, then she rose and he stood as well. She kissed him on the
cheek softly and he returned this distant embrace which is all they would
allow themselves, knowing the wellsprings of emotions that they would tap
with anything more. They said good-bye and she left and he watched her
go until she vanished from sight behind the gilt pillars, then he resumed
his seat and the swift destruction of his glass of brandy which burned so
warmly, the only warmth in a world of cold, that he ordered another to
follow it, then the bottle for the table so the waiter would not have to run
back and forth so often.

Yet as much as he drank he was immune to drink. The level in the

bottle lowered until it faced extinction and still its potent medicine never
touched the chill core within him. His work had vanished, the one he loved
had gone, there remained only an encompassing despair. He sat in this
manner for a great length of time until he became aware of the waiter
standing at his shoulder holding out a portable telephone instrument
while a mechanic connected it to a concealed fitting in the wall.

“You are wanted on the line, Captain Washington,” said he.

Cornwallis came on, his voice loud and booming.

“Washington, is that you? What a relief, we have been trying to contact

you now for hours.”

“Yes?”

“Well, tried to contact you as I said. Had quite a time here I can assure

you, Sir Isambard is a difficult man as you well know. But he came around
in the end. He puts the tunnel ahead of all other considerations as do we
all. As I hope you do, too, Washington.”

“Sir!”

“Of course you agree. In which case we are asking you to withdraw your

resignation and carry on with us. We need you, man! Sir Isambard will

build the Point 200 to the Azores leg, the easier one, and will let you do
the American section with your infernal tunnel-bridge across the Rift
Valley. Will you do it? Will you stay with us?”

The silence lengthened and Cornwallis’s anxious breathing could be

heard on the line. Despite the brandy he had drunk Gus was sober on the
instant, and when he answered there was only firmness in his voice.

BOOK THE THIRD

A STORM AT SEA

I. ANGRA DO HEROISMO

Far out to sea thunder rumbled like great wooden kegs rolling over

cobbles, and jagged flares of lightning lit up the banks of dark clouds with
an ominous glow, creating for a moment an unreal landscape of fiery black
meadows in the sky, a country of the damned hanging over the slate-gray
sea. The first fat drops of rain flew ahead of the storm and splattered on
the stone of the dock-side while the gusts of wind sent up a shaking rustle
and a clatter from the tall palm trees that stood in ranks along the shore.
The tugs entering the harbor hooted hurried signals one to the other with
white puffs of steam from their whistles, the steam silently visible to the
watchers on shore long seconds before the mournful moan of the whistle
could be heard.

They had reason to hurry for already the approaching storm was

raising the waves and breaking streamers of white spray from their tops.
Yet they still must make haste slowly for the great whale of a tunnel
section they had in tow resisted any hurried motions with its
multi-hundred tonned mass. Its humped back was just awash so that the
rising seas broke over it, giving it the appearance of some surfacing sea
monster, gray and ominous. Finally, with careful attention and much
frantic, hooting, it was brought into safe harbor behind the sea walls and
secured to the waiting buoys there.

From his vantage point on the raised platform of the Control Office,

Gus had a clear view of the harbor and work yards, train yards and barns,
junctions and tracks, cranes and constructions, slipways and storehouses,
a varied industrial landscape that was all under his control, where
thousands of men labored at his bidding. It was a familiar scene now, yet
he never tired of it. The radio at his elbow reported the successful tying up

of the tunnel section at the same moment his eye saw the rising column of
steam, the long blast that meant the tow was completed and the lines
could be cast off. With this finished he lowered the powerful binoculars
and wiped at his fatigued eyes, then looked around at the boom and bustle
that was his life.

Riveting guns hammered and metal clanged on metal, cables squealed

as great traction engines moved ponderous weights, small whistles
toot-tooted as the puffing yard donkeys scurried back and forth through
the maze of tracks, shunting the goods wagons about, great cranes swung
as they lifted cargo from ships’ holds. The raindrops came closer and
closer until they were upon him and now he was grateful for their cool
touch upon his bronzed skin, for it had been a hot and close day.

Though his shirt, with the sleeves rolled up, and his puttees were made

of the thinnest cotton khaki twill, the heat had still been insufferable, so
that the rain was a welcome change. He even took off his topee and turned
his face up to the sky so the drops splashed pleasantly upon him. Only
when the shower became a torrent did he seek shelter in the office and
take up a towel to dry himself. The office staff continued with their
assigned tasks, except for the head ganger, Sapper Cornptanter, who now
approached carrying an immense sheaf of papers.

“I have all the work reports and time sheets for all the gangs, time and

hours, days sick, everything. Heap big waste of time.”

“I am forced to admit that I share your lack of enthusiasm—but what

must be done, must be done.” He looked at his watch and came to a quick
decision. “Have a messenger take them to my hotel and leave them at the
desk so I can work on them tonight. New York is concerned about the
rising unit costs and the secret of the higher expenses may well be here. I’ll
go over them this evening and see if I can prize out the nugget of truth
from this dross of statistics. In fact I shall leave now before the shift ends
so I won’t be trampled underfoot.”

“Making tunnels is thirsty work in this climate. Navvies need plenty

beer, wine, red-eye to keep going.”

“A point I’ll not argue. You know where I’ll be and what to do.”

The quick storm had almost passed as he picked his way across the

yards, the last drops clattering on his topee. He needed his knee-high

engineer’s boots here for the mud was constantly churned up by the heavy
lorries. Reaching Avenida Atlantica, the wide street that ran along the
shore, he strolled down it, blending with the heterogeneous crowd that
was now making its appearance after the warm afternoon siesta. He
enjoyed this time of day, this parade of people from every walk of life, from
almost every corner of the world, for it was his tunnel that had turned the
sleepy little sub-tropical city of Angra do Heroismo, on the island of
Terceira in the Azores, into the bustling, brawling, international port it
had become.

Of course the off-shift navvies were there, from both sides of the

Atlantic, handsome in their scarves and colorful waistcoats, high boots
and great hats, pushing their way through the pack and giving ground to
no man. The olive-skinned islanders seemed in a minority here, but they
did not complain because prosperity was now their lot, a prosperity never
known before when fish were the only profit they took from the sea, not
tunnelers’ wages. Once the cash crops of pineapples and bananas, oranges,
tobacco and tea were sold on a perilous world market. Now these products
were consumed locally with great enthusiasm, so that little or none had to
be shipped abroad.

Nor were the navvies the only customers of local goods, for where the

tunnel went and the money from the men’s pay packets, there went as well
men and—alas!—women who had designs upon that money, whose only
ambition in life was to transfer as much of it as possible from the purses
of the honest working men to depths of their own sordid wallets. Gamblers
there were in the crowd, sleek men with dark clothes, neat moustaches
and white hands—and ready derringers about their persons to confront
any man so rash as to dispute the honesty of a deal or the fall of a pair of
dice. Money lenders there were, who had ready cash at any time for any
man gainfully employed, who exacted such immense sums in interest,
three and four hundred percent not being uncommon, that the biblical
injunctions against usury easily could be understood.

Merchants came, too, not men of established business who displayed

their wares in public and stated their price clearly, but gray men with
folding boxes and velvet bags in secret pockets, who produced rings and
watches, diamonds and rubies at ridiculously low prices, inferring, or
whispering, that the goods were lava, hot that is, stolen that is, though it
would take an insane thief to steal such poor wares, for the rings turned
green, the watches stopped ticking when the roaches inside them died, the

diamonds and rubies fell to smithereens of glass if dropped.

And there were women, oh yes, hapless creatures of the night, betrayed,

stolen, enslaved, entrapped, doomed to a life of hell that does not bear
describing on the printed page lest the ink that forms the words grows
warm, then scorching hot enough to burn the letters from the paper, for
the eye of the gentle reader dare not behold the facts of such as these and
the trade they plied.

All these were upon the sidewalks this afternoon, and more as well,

Moorish traders come with dhows from Africa and Iberia bringing food,
for the few islands of the archipelago could not produce enough for the
great numbers of men based here, dark-skinned, hawk-nosed men in
white burnooses who paced the pavement with firm tread, hands resting
on cruel knives, interested in this strange outpost of the alien Christian.
An occasional frock-coated man of business could be seen, for much
business was conducted here, proceeding incognito in his uniform clothes
so the observer could not tell if he were French or Prussian, Russian or
Pole, Dane or Dutch. And more, and more they passed in an ever
changing, never changing, flood of humanity.

Gus always enjoyed the show and when he came to his favorite

establishment, the Tampico, he turned in and sat at a table on the porch,
just a few feet above the street, resting his arm on the thick brass rail that
surrounded it, waving to the bowing owner and smiling at the rushing
waiter who was bringing a chilled bottle of the local wine he favored,
vinho de cheiro, a delicately scented, sweetly flavored wine that had the
taste and smell of roses. He sipped at this and felt at peace. The work went
well, there was nothing to complain about. But as he watched the crowd
he was aware, out of the corner of his eye, of someone sitting at the next
table, back to him, moving very close. That this arrangement was not
accidental was made manifest when the man, for it was a man, spoke in a
low voice that only Gus could hear.

“Your navvies good workers, Meestair Washington, work very hard and

need to eat very much. Feed them you must, beeg meals, beeg money. I
joost happen to have many tons of canned hams, such good hams you
would not believe and I have a sample here in pocket to prove you.”
Something slapped the table wetly and Gus could not help noticing the
piece of meat on a cloth napkin that had suddenly appeared at his elbow.
He ignored it as well as he had ignored its owner, yet the man persisted.

“See how fine, my, good pig from the mountains of the Balkans, eat, eat,
you will enjoy. I have these hams to sell for special price for you, oh good
price and under the table for you a certain commission, gold most
suitable, yike!”

The speaker had terminated his conversation in this unusual manner

because Sapper Cornplanter had appeared silently behind him and had
lifted him suddenly by trouser seat and nape of neck and had hurled him
bodily into the street where he instantly vanished. With his fingertips Gus
sent the portion of meat after its master where it disappeared into the
maw of one of the long-legged island dogs who roamed the pavement.

“More tons of concrete cut with sand?” Sapper asked, still standing but

pouring himself a glass of wine for his services.

“Not this time. From the little I heard before you terminated the

conversation it was either a stolen shipment of meat, or tainted, or some
such. They never stop trying, do they?”

Sapper grunted a monosyllabic answer and faded from sight inside the

cafe. Gus sipped at his wine. The entrepreneurs would never believe that
he could not be bribed, it was their lifetime of experience that everyone
had their price, everyone was accessible, so they persisted in trying with
him. He had long since stopped trying to talk to them so arranged that
one of his men was always nearby when he was in public and that a
certain gesture of his hand, apparently meaningless in itself, carried the
information that once again a conversation never begun was due to be
terminated.

He forgot about this matter at once, so common had it become, and

had more wine while the gentle tropical evening drew on apace. When he
was refreshed and cooled he made his leisurely way through the still
streaming crowd to the Terra Nostra Hotel where he kept a room at the
best hotel on the island, which was by no means an extravagant claim, as
well as being hideously overcrowded as were all hotels and restaurants
since the tunnel had located here. The manager, bowing with pleasure, for
his custom was greatly respected, handed over the package the messenger
had brought, and Gus went up to his room to do some work on the papers
before partaking of the late dinner so favored by the islanders.

When he unlocked the door he saw that the room was dark, that the

chambermaid had neglected once again to turn on the light. This was a

normal occurrence and he thought little of it as he closed the door and
groped for the switch and threw it. Nothing happened. The electricity
must be off again, he thought, the coal-fired generating plant was
hideously inefficient. Yet the lights had been on in the lobby. Puzzling over
this, he had just turned back to the door when the sudden glare of an
electric torch burned into his eyes, the first intimation he had had that he
was not alone in the room. Whoever his secret visitor might be, he was
certainly here for no good end, that was Gus’s instant thought, and he
turned to hurl himself at the light source. He was stayed from attacking by
the silent appearance of a man’s hand in the beam, a hand clutching a
nickel-plated and very efficient-looking revolver.

“You’are here to rob me?” said Gus, coolly.

“Not exactly,” the secret visitor answered in what were obviously

American tones. “Let us say I wished first to see who you were, then to
make sure you were alone, and lastly the gun, if you will excuse its
presence, to ensure you did nothing hasty in this darkened room as, I
believe, you were starting to do.”

“Here is my wallet, take it and leave. I have nothing else of value to you

in the room.”

“Thank you, no,” said the voice in the darkness, a hint of laughter to the

words. “You misconstrue my presence” There was a rattle and a clatter at
the lighting fixture, though the torch stayed steadily on Gus all the time,
and the lights finally came on.

The nocturnal visitor was a man in his middle thirties garbed in the

almost traditional dress of the American tourist abroad, colorful, beaded
Indian shirt, peaked fisherman’s cap with a green plastic visor that was
studded all over with badges and patches indicating places he had been,
knee-length shorts, and sturdy, hobnailed boots. Around his neck was
slung his camera and ancillary photographic apparatus and from his belt
there hung the required wire recorder that lectured him day and night on
what he was seeing. His face was cheerful enough when he smiled, as he
was doing now, but it hinted that in repose the icy blue eyes were stern,
the wide jaw set, the broken, hooked, sharp nose might resemble the
predatory bill of a hawk.

Gus examined the man slowly and carefully, standing motionless under

the ready threat of the revolver, looking for an opportunity to turn the

tables. That this would not be necessary was proven an instant later when
the stranger touched the bottom of his wire recorder so that the case fell
open and a secret compartment was disclosed. Into this opening he
pushed the gun while, at the same time, he removed a smaller object. The
leather case sealed again with a click as, still smiling, he passed over the
extracted metal shield.

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Captain Washington. My name

is Richard Tracy and I am manager of the New York office of Pinkerton’s.
That is my shield you have in your hand and I was instructed, as further
identification, to give you this note.”

The sturdy envelope was closed with sealing wax, with Sir Winthorp’s

seal upon it, and showed no signs of being tampered with. Inside was a
brief note in Rockefeller’s own hand which Gus recognized at once. The
message was succinct.

This will introduce R. Tracy, Esq., whom I have retained privately. He

is to be trusted absolutely in the matter to hand. W. Rockefeller.

“Do you know the contents of this letter?”

“Just the gist of it, that I am conducting an investigation and only you

are to know about it. I was advised to inform you that Sir Winthorp has
engaged me personally, out of his own private funds, and that you are the
only other person who knows of my existence.”

“I suppose you wouldn’t care to tell me just what it is you are

investigating?”

“Just getting to that, sir. Sabotage it is, a very nasty business indeed. I

can cite instances you know of, and still more that you don’t.”

“Such as the mysterious lack of fuel in the helithopter in Canada?”

“True enough. And the cut cable on the tunnel section of the last part to

the Grand Banks Station, the collapsing shed in the rail yard, and many
others. I have been here on the island for a little time now and have made
an investigation in depth. There is a strong organization that is actively
operating against the success of this tunnel. They are well financed and
ruthless and will stop at nothing.”

“But, who is doing this—and why?”

“At this stage I could only guess, and guessing is a thing I prefer not to

do, being a man of facts and facts alone. Perhaps that is one of the things
we will soon discover, for I have approached you now for your aid. I and
my operatives have been investigating here for some months…”

“I had no idea!”

“Nor should you have, for my men are of the best. You have seen some

of them working on the tunnel, I’ll wager, because I have managed to get
them into a number of places. And now one of them, he is called Billygoat
because he is as ugly and nasty as one, has been approached by the
saboteurs and has agreed to aid them. That is where I need your help. You
must supply me with a place to commit willful and expensive sabotage so
that Billygoat will be admitted to their ranks. Once I know who they are
we can swoop and grab the lot.”

“It will take some thinking, but I know we can come up with something.

I’ll talk to-”

“No one, sir, no one if you will, for I value my life dearly.”

“I miss your meaning.”

“I will be frank. Other investigators have been hired in the past and

they either failed in their tasks or were found dead under mysterious
circumstances. Sir Winthrop believes, and I agree heartily, that someone
within the company is in league with the saboteurs.”

“It cannot be!”

“But it is. Someone with much special knowledge, perhaps more than

one person. Until we find out we take no chances, that is the reason why I
came to your room in this strange manner. Other than yourself and Sir
Winthrop, no one knows I am on the job.”

“Surely I can tell-”

“No one! It must be that way.”

It was agreed, no one else was to know. A system of passwords and

means of contact were agreed upon, and an exuberant kind of sabotage
worked out. When all was done the secret investigator flipped open what
appeared to be an identification bracelet on his wrist, but which proved to
be a two-way radio with which he spoke to a confederate who disclosed
that the room was not being watched. Armed with this knowledge he
turned off the lights and slipped out the door to vanish as mysteriously as
he had appeared.

Though Gus worked late upon his papers and should have had all of his

attention there, his thoughts kept returning to the mysterious saboteurs.
Who were they—and who inside the company was part of the plan?

He found it hard to sleep when finally he retired, for his thoughts went

around and around this bone of knowledge and worried at it unceasingly.

II. THE PLOT REVEALED

Not a sound disturbed the sunlit afternoon, not a word was spoken that

could be heard, not a hammer struck metal, no sound of footstep, or
motor, or any other man-made noise contrived to break the near perfect
stillness. Yes, waves could be heard slapping against the seawall while
gulls cried overhead, but these were natural sounds and independent of
man, for it was the men and their machines who were quiet all through
the immense spread of the tunnel works as everyone had ceased his labor
and climbed to some point of vantage to watch the drama being played
out before their eyes. Every wall and roof and crane had men hanging
from it like clusters of grapes, human fruit wide-eyed and silent in the
presence of tragedy, staring fixedly at the small humpbacked submarine
that was churning its way out of the harbor at top speed. Only at the
highest vantage point of the Control Office was there any movement and
sound, one man, the radio operator, throwing switches and touching his
dials, clutching his microphone tightly, speaking into it, while great drops
of perspiration rolled down his forehead and dropped unheeded onto the
bench.

“Repeat, this is a command from Captain Washington. Repeat, you

must abandon ship at once. Do you read me, Nautilus, do you read me?”

The speaker above his head crackled and sputtered with static, then

boomed out with an amplified voice. “Sure and I can’t read you, you not
being a book and all, but I can hear you that well as if you were sittin‘ at
me shoulder. Continuing on course.”

A sound, something between a gasp and a sigh was drawn from the

listening men while Gus pushed past them and seized the microphone
from the operator and flipped the switch to speak.

“Washington here—and this is an order, O’Toole. Lock your controls at

once and bail out of that thing. I’ll have the launch pick you up. Over.” The
airwaves hissed and crackled.

“Orders are meant to be obeyed, Captain Washington, but begging your

pardon, sir, I’m thinking just not hear this one. I’ve got the old Naut here
cranked up for more knots than she ever did before in her rusty life and
she’s going along like Billy-be-damned. The red’s still rising on the meter
but she’ll be well out to sea before it hits the danger mark.”

“Can’t you damp the pile?”

“Now I’m afraid I’ll have to answer that in the negative, sir. When I

turned on the power the damping rods just pulled all the way out and I
haven’t been able to get them back in, manually or otherwise. Not being
an a-tomic engineer I have no idea how to fix the thing so I thought it best
to take her out to sea a bit.”

“Lock the controls and leave—”

“Little late, Captain, since everything is sizzling and sort of heating up

in the stern. And the controls can be set for a level course and not for a
dive, and dive is what I’m doing. Take her as deep as possible. So I’ll be
signing off now since the radio doesn’t work underwater…” The voice
thinned and died and the microphone fell from Gus’s hand with a clatter.
Far out to sea there was a flurry of white as the sub went under. Then the
ocean was empty.

“Call him on the sonarphone,” said Gus.

“I’ve tried, sir, no answer. I don’t think he has it turned on.”

Silence then, absolute silence, for the word had been passed as to what

was transpiring and everyone there now knew what was happening, what
one man was doing for them. They watched, looking out to sea, squinting
into the sun where the submarine had gone down, waiting for the final act
of this drama of life and death being enacted before their eyes, not
knowing what to expect, but knowing, feeling, that although this atomic

energy was beyond their comprehension, its manifestations would be
understandable.

It happened. Far out to sea there was a sudden broiling and seething

and the ocean itself rose up in a hump as though some ancient and evil
denizen of the deeps was struggling to the surface, or perhaps a new island
coming into being. Then, as this evil boil upon the ocean’s surface
continued to grow, a fearful shock was felt that hurled men from their feet
and set the cranes swinging and brought a terrible clangor from the
stacked sheets of steel. While all the time, higher and higher the waters
climbed until the churning mass stood hundreds of feet in the air and
then, before it could fall back, from the very center there rose a white
column, a fiercely coiling presence that pushed up incredibly until it was
as high as the great peak on the nearby island of Pico. Here it blossomed
out obscenely, opening like a hellish flower until a white cloud shot
through with red lightning sat on top of the spire that had produced it.
There it stood, repellent in its concept, strangely beautiful in its
strangeness, a looming mushroom in the sky, a poisonous mushroom that
fed on death and was death.

On shore the watchers could not take their eyes from the awful thing,

were scarcely aware of the men beside them, yet, one by one, they removed
their hats and held them to their chests in memory of a brave man who
had just died.

“There will be no more work today,” said Gus, his voice sudden in the

silence. “Make the announcement and then you all may leave.”

Out to sea the wind was already thinning and dispersing the cloud and

driving it away from them. Gus spared it only one look then jammed on
his topee and left. Of their own accord his feet found the familiar route to
the street and thence to El Tampico. The waiter rushed for his wine,
brought it with ready questions as to the strange thing they had all seen,
but Gus waved away bottle and answer both and ordered whiskey. When it
came he drained a large glass at once, then poured a second and gazed
into its depths. After a number of minutes he raised his hand to his head
in a certain gesture and the guardian form of the great Indian appeared in
the doorway behind and approached.

“Nobody here to give the bum’s rush to,” said Sapper.

“I know. Here, sit and have a drink.”

“Red-eye, good stuff.” He drained a tumbler and sighed with

satisfaction. “That’s what I call real firewater.”

“Have some more. In fact you can have the bottle. Stay here and drink

for a while—and don’t follow me. I’m going inside and out the back way.”

The Algonquin puzzled over that for a moment, then his face lit up in a

wide grin. “Say, now that’s what I call a good idea. Just what an Indian
does. Get woman to drown sorrows. I’ll tell you best house…”

“That’s perfectly fine, but I’m old enough to take care of myself. Now

just sit here.”

Gus fought back a smile as he rose; if only Sapper knew where he was

going. Without looking back he went through the dining room and up the
stairs that led to the rest rooms. However, after he had entered the dark
hallway he stopped and listened to see if he was alone When he was sure
that he had not been followed he went swiftly and quietly to the window at
the end a the corridor and pulled it open; it was unlocked and well greased
and opened silently. In one swift motion he was through it and balanced
or the ledge outside, closing it behind him before he dropped into the dark
alleyway beyond. He had not been seen; blank, cracked walls faced him
and noisome refuse barrels stood close by. There were people passing at
the sunlit end of the alley, none looking in, yet to be completely sure he
waited until the street there was empty. Only then did he run silently
across to the other building, to the door recessed there that opened as he
approached and closed behind him.

“It went all right? You weren’t seen?” Tracy asked.

“Fine, just fine. Sapper is guarding my flank.”

The Pinkerton man nodded and led the way to another room, well lit by

electric bulbs since the shutters were closed and the curtains drawn. There
was a radio set upon a table here and a man sitting before it who turned
and rose as Gus entered.

“Sure and I feel like a departed spirit,” O’Toole said.

“You did an excellent job.”

“It’s the actor in me, sir, and you were no slouch yourself. Why for a

while there I was convinced that I was really back on the old Naut and
sailing her out for a deep six and it fair to choked me up. She was a good
ship and ‘tis a pity she had to go like that.”

“A noble end, and far better than the breaker’s yard where she was

headed. Her glands were beginning to leak and fissures develop in her
pressure hull. This way her destruction served a good purpose.”

“Yes, I’m sure you’re right, though I have to mind the danger from all

that radiation that the technical manuals warn us about.” ‘

“There is no worry there. The meteorologists assure us that the

prevailing winds will carry the radiation out to sea away from the
shipping lanes, and that the radioactive materials in the sea water will be
dispersed and harmless.”

“An encouraging thought. So with that taken care of the next order of

business will the grand adventure you are embarking on this
evening—that will give some meaning to the demise of the dear old Naut.
Can I go with you?”

“No!” said Tracy in a commanding voice, his fingers lingering near the

butt of a revolver that had been pushed into the front of his belt and
concealed by his jacket. Another man, who had been sitting quietly in a
chair in the corner rose swiftly and it could now be seen that a gun had
been in his hand all of the time. Tracy waved him back. “At ease,
Pickering, he won’t be coming with us. Captain Washington, when I gave
permission for another man to be informed of events it was with the firm
understanding that he would remain in this room until circumstances had
run their course.”

“And so he will, Tracy, I gave you my word.” He turned back to the

submarine pilot who was looking on with a fair degree of
incomprehension. “It has to be that way, O’Toole.‘ You have come into this
matter blind, just taking my word that sabotaging your own sub and
sending her out to sea to blow up and pretending by radio, that you were
aboard her, was important—and highly secret. Perhaps you have some
hint of what is involved, but I ask you to keep it to yourself if you do. And
remain in this room with Pickering, for your own good if for no other
reason. We are up against desperate men and we must needs be as
desperate ourselves and it is my firm belief that either of these two men
would shoot you dead rather than permit you to leave this room this

evening.”

Both of the secret operatives nodded silent agreement while O’Toole

shrugged in submission. “So be it, sir. Since I’ve committed suicide once
today I’ll not be wanting to do it twice.”

“Sit under this light,” Tracy told Gus, the matter ended and the revolver

buttoned from sight again. “No one must recognize you or the game is
up.”

Under his skillful fingers Washington changed into someone else, so

abruptly and efficiently that O’Toole breathed the names of a saint or two
as he watched the transfiguration. First brown dye, rubbed well into his
hands and face, then pads were slipped inside his cheeks, some brisk work
with a dark pencil to accent lines in his skin, invisible rings put into his
nostrils to widen and round them, all of this climaxed by a thick
moustache attached with spirit gum with a wig to match. When Gus
looked into the mirror he gasped, for a stranger looked back at him, a
Latin gentleman, one of the islanders perhaps, bearing no resemblance to
the man who had sat first in the chair. While he admired this handiwork
Tracy was busy on his own face, working the same sort of transformation,
climaxing the entire operation by producing two pin-striped suits with
wide lapels and stuffed shoulders, definitely of a continental cut, as well as
black, pointed shoes. After they had changed into the clothes O’Toole let a
thin whistle escape through his teeth.

“Why sure and I could pass you in the street and never know, and that’s

the truth.”

“We must leave now,” Tracy said, looking at his watch, calmly

accepting the praise as his professional due. “We must use a roundabout
route to reach the meeting place.”

Darkness had fallen while they prepared their disguises so that the side

streets and alleys that Tracy preferred were blacker than pitch. But he
seemed to have acquainted himself with the underworld geography of the
city for he made his way unerringly to their goal. As they paused, outside a
darkened doorway no different from a hundred others they had passed, he
bent close and whispered.

“These are bloodthirsty men and sure to be armed. I have a second

revolver if you wish.”

“No thank you. I am a man of peace, not war, and abominate the

things.”

“A necessary tool, no more. But I have heard that your right cross was

much respected in college boxing and more than once you were urged to
enter the professional ring. If it comes to close work there is nothing
wrong with fists.”

“I agree and look forward to the opportunity with pleasure. Now—lead

on.”

The door proved to be the back entrance to one of the fouler drinking

dens that lined the waterfront, though it did have a balcony overlooking
the main room where the gentry, or those who passed for it, could drink in
a measure of solitude while watching the steaming stew of life below. They
took a table at the rail and Tracy waved back two dark-eyed and rouged
women who began to sidle towards them. The waiter brought a bottle of
the best the house offered, a thin and acid champagne at a startlingly high
price, and they touched it to their lips without drinking. Speaking around
his glass, in a voice that only Gus could hear, Tracy said, “He is there, the
table by the door, the man who is drinking alone. Do not turn to look at
him for there are other watchers here besides us.”

Casually lighting a thin and dangerous-looking black cheroot that Tracy

handed him, Gus threw the match onto the soiled floor and looked
offhandedly down at the crowd. Drinking, shouting, gambling, swearing, it
was a noisy bustle of life, a mixture of local toughs, navvies, coarse
seamen, a den of a place. Gus let his eyes move over the man at the table
just as they had moved over the others, an ugly man with a perpetual
scowl, the agent Tracy had referred to as Billygoat. He was garbed as were
the other navvies, for he had been working on the tunnel, at the waterfront
section. He could have had access to the submarine which had first
originated the idea in Gus’s mind. His sabotage theoretically successfully
finished, he was waiting for his pay-off, waiting to meet others in the
sabotage gang since now, by his drastic act, he had proven his worth.

It was then that, out of the welter of voices below, Gus made out one

that sounded familiar, a bull-like roar that he was sure he had heard
before many a time. He allowed his eyes to roam across the crowd again
and controlled himself so he gave no physical sign of what he saw, but
instead finished his slow survey and raised his glass. Only when the glass
was before his face did he speak.

“There’s a navvy down there, Fighting Jack, my head ganger from the

English end of the tunnel. If he recognizes me—”

“Pray he does not for we are lost then and the entire operation must be

scrapped. I know he arrived today with a levy of men for the English
tunnel, but why of all the odds did he have to pick this establishment out
of the many of its type to do his drinking? It is just bad luck.”

And there was worse luck to come, as a hoarse bellowing in the street

outside indicated. The door crashed open and through it came Sapper
Cornplanter, more than three sheets in the wind, the full bottle
Washington had ordered earlier that evening now almost empty in his
hand. If anyone there had managed to miss his noisy arrival, he informed
them now with a warbling war cry that set the glasses dancing on the bar.

“I can lick any man in the house! I can lick any three men if no one man

has guts to stand up! I can lick any six men if no—”

“That is a heap big Indian bag of wind.”

As these words were uttered Sapper froze and his eyes narrowed as he

slowly turned his head in the direction of the speaker moving with the
deadliness of a swiveling gun turret, his eyes as menacing as twin cannon.
As he did this Fighting Jack climbed to his feet. In the balcony above Gus
stifled a groan as Sapper answered.

“And you are a limey liar.”

As he spoke the words he seemed completely sober, while at the same

time he cracked the bottle against the door frame so that the jagged neck
remained in his hand. Fighting Jack kicked his chair aside and stepped
clear.

“Need a broken bottle, don’t you, Indian? Can’t face up’t‘a white man’s

fists.” He disclosed just what one of these objects would look like by lifting
up a clenched hand the size of a small spade. There was a crash as Sapper
discarded the bottle and moved forward.

“Any white man can use his fists—but can one of them Indian wrestle?”

The answer came in a roar.

“I can do anything you can do—but better!”

They stomped towards each other, feet shaking the building, while the

men in between them fled. Not until they were standing face to face did
they stop, noses touching, eyes glaring, teeth bared, like two bison muzzle
to muzzle, or a pair of great locomotives neither of which would give way.
With unspoken agreement they stepped sideways and sat at a recently
emptied table, swept the glasses and bottles to the floor and hurled their
coats from them, rolled up their sleeves and thudded their right elbows
onto the scarred wood as they seated themselves. Their gazes locked as
their hands met and grasped and squeezed, tight, each clenched tightly
enough to crush solid wood but not tight enough to do any damage to the
opposed member. With their grips strongly engaged each man now
exerted himself to push the other’s hand back to the table so the knuckles
touched, thereby winning. A simple enough procedure, easily and quickly
resolved in most instances, as the stronger or more resolute man
vanquished the other.

Not this time however. If ever two giants were equally matched these

two were—and neither would give a fraction of an inch. The muscles in
their arms stood out like gnarled steel and the tendons were bar-hard as
every iota of strength they possessed went into the struggle. They were well
matched however, even too perfectly matched, for neither could gain an
advantage, strain as he might. The crowd watched this battle of the titans
with bulge-eyed attention, so silent with awe that when the muscles in
Fighting Jack’s upper arm split through his shirt the rip of the cloth could
be clearly heard. A moment later the shirt across Sapper’s brawny
shoulders parted in the same manner from the strain. And still they fought
on, locked in a rigid and deadly embrace: neither would give in, neither
would relinquish victory.

There was a sharp crack as the top of the table split in two under their

steady pressure and fell away. Now that their elbows were no longer
supported they rose slowly to their feet, still locked equally, still straining
with such force that it seemed human flesh and bone could not stand
against it.

A whisper of awe sussurated through the room for it was scarcely

believable, this sight which they were seeing with their own eyes. The hum
and buzz of voices grew louder and there were a few cheers, including a
war whoop from a table full of Onandagas. In response one of the English
navvies shouted out “Break him in half, Fighting Jack!” and there were
other calls as well. Strangely enough all of this had an odd effect on Sapper

who, without relinquishing his hold in the slightest, looked up at his
opponent and spoke, with some difficulty so tightly cramped was his jaw.

“Are you… the head ganger… Fighting Jack?”

Fighting Jack had the same difficulty in speaking but managed to

produce the words, “I am.”

The results of this simple statement were startling to say the least, for

when he heard them Sapper ceased straining against the other’s arm.
Taken by surprise Fighting Jack was off balance and fell sideways and was
twisted around so that the Iroquois was able to slap him on the shoulder
as he went by. The result was what might be expected for the English
ganger did not take lightly to this kind of treatment, so he continued
turning until he had swung about in a full circle and was facing his
opponent again—this time with his fists clenched and ready to do havoc.
But before he could spring to the attack the Indian spoke.

“Well I’m the head ganger name of Sapper Cornplanter.”

Fighting Jack’s fists fell and he straightened up, evidencing the same

look of surprise that had been on the other’s face a few moments earlier.
They faced each other like this, then began to smile and in a moment
began to laugh, shaking and bellowing with laughter to the bemusement
and befuddlement of the onlookers, who were even more greatly shocked
when the massive navvies clapped arms about each other’s shoulders,
seized up bottles from the nearest tables and went out of the door
laughing and drinking together.

“I presume you could explain their actions,” the Pinkerton man said.

“Surely,” was Gus’s response. “You know that Sapper is my head ganger

here, and that Fighting Jack was my head ganger on the English end of
the tunnel. Each man has heard of the other, knows of him by reputation,
and knows as well that they are both my close friends, which to a navvy
makes them buddies as well. So you see they have no reason to fight but
instead plenty of reason to drink together which I am sure they are doing
now.”

As he finished speaking Gus looked back to the table where the agent,

Billygoat was sitting, whom he had forgotten for the moment, and he
fought hard to conceal the shock that overwhelmed him.

“He’s gone! While we were watching the others, gone!”

Their mission was compromised; through inattention they had missed

their chance to capture their saboteurs. Gus was abashed by this
knowledge but Tracy seemed coldly indifferent. He had his watch out, a
large pocket turnip, and was looking at the face of it.

“While you were watching the others,” said he, coolly. “I am too much

an old hand at these matters to be distracted that easily. During the
excitement the contact man saw his opportunity and signaled to Billygoat
and they have both gone.”

“You should have told me, now we will never find them.”

“Quite the contrary; everything is going according to plan. I informed

you that there were enemy watchers here and if we had left right after the
others it would have been noticed and there would have been trouble. As it
is we can now pay for the slops we drank,” he threw some coins on the
table as he said this, “and leave now that the excitement is over. We will
not be followed.” He glanced at his watch again before putting it away and
climbing to his feet.

Gus came after, amazed at the other’s calmness in the face of obvious

disaster, following him down the dank passage and out into the street
once again. They gained the main avenue and Tracy turned in the
direction of the waterfront.

“I will keep you in the darkness no longer, Washington,” said he. “As

you have technical secrets in your trade so do we in mine. And Pinkerton
has the best. The agent, Billygoat, has a certain device concealed in his
right boot, in reality built within the sole of the boot itself and
indetectable by any normal search. When contact was made with him he
stamped his heel down hard in a precise manner. This ruptured a thin
membrane within a cell that permitted acid in one half to flow into the
other half, thereby transforming the inactive cell into an operating battery
of great strength. The current thus generated goes to a powerful but
compact radio generator also in the boot sole, the signal of which is sent
up a wire that has been woven into the seam of his trousers. This connects
to an aerial within his belt which broadcasts the powerful shortwave
signal. You have seen me glancing at my watch?”

“I have indeed, and wondered at your sudden interest in the hour.”

“Not the time at all, for ‘this watch contains a compact receiver, a

direction finder that is tuned to the radio signal from Billygoat. See for
yourself.”

He extracted the watch and held it flat in his hand, there being enough

light from the nearest street gas lamp to make out the face. When he
pressed the crown the hour hand glowed softly and spun about to point
down the street towards the sea; then it returned to its proper position
indicating the correct time when he released his grip.

“Ingenious, wouldn’t you agree? They are ahead of us, so let us proceed.

We cannot see them which is perfect, for that means they cannot see us
and will be unalarmed. The radio will point the way.”

As long as the street was well lit and occupied they strolled along

casually, just part of the throng. But when the avenue they were on ended
at the unlighted docks they turned around, as though completing a stroll
there, and went back the way they had come. At the first turning they
stopped for a moment and talked, still the casual strollers, while Tracy
made sure they were not being observed. When they were clear he stepped
into the shadows of the crossway and drew Gus after him.

“They are on the waterfront somewhere, the finder pointed in that

direction. We shall make our way parallel to the harbor until we have a
better indication of their destination.”

They did this, stumbling over rubbish and litter and disturbing cats

and rats in their nocturnal rounds, until Tracy halted once again at a
crossing and studied the pointing hand.

“Most interesting, for it now points slightly back in the direction from

whence we came. Washington, you are the engineer and the surveyor and
have an eye for this sort of thing. Take a bearing here down the street and
we shall go back a bit to the next street for another cross bearing. Can you
do that, determine where they are?”

“That is my trade,” he said with some assurance, squinting along the

tiny arrow.

When he had repeated this ritual he thought for a moment then led the

Pinkerton agent forward to a spot where they could see the dark wharves
and the ships beyond. Unhesitatingly he pointed his finger.

“They are there.”

“Aboard that ship? You are sure?”

“You said earlier that you could not be distracted from your job. I

might say the same for mine.”

“Then I unhesitatingly accept your information. We are ready for the

final act to begin.”

Tracy then moved back a few yards in the direction they had come from

and raised a whistle to his lips and blew lustily into it. Gus was slightly
startled when no sound, other than the slight hiss of escaping air, emerged
from it. Tracy saw his expression of puzzlement and smiled.

“Supersonic sound, that is sound waves that are too high-pitched for

the human ear to hear, but these sounds were not meant for the human
ear as you can see.”

Two men appeared, the first of them leading a small dog on a leash.

Tracy bent to pet the beast and explained. “Trained to come to that sound.
These are my men who have been keeping watch over us waiting for my
signal.”

“I had no idea they were there.”

“They are professionals.”

Tracy issued swift orders, then he and Gus went forward once again.

“My operators will surround the area and close in, but I must lead the
attack. You need not come with me—”

“I am your man.”

“Good. I was hoping you would. I want you there when the curtain falls

on the last act of this little drama.”

Tracy went first, silent as a cat, with Gus a few yards behind. They

stayed close to the walls, in the darkness, and worked their way to the spot
nearest the ship, where a single tiny lamp on deck cast a weak glow on the
battered gangway. Tracy halted for a moment, looking at the ship, and
when he did a shadow detached itself from the wall behind him and

lurched forward.

Gus had only a split second to act in, and he did not want to call out a

warning, so he jumped forward as well. His fist came up in a short, wicked
arc that ended on the mysterious assailant’s jaw with a sharp crack that
caused Tracy to spin about. There was a small thud as the club the man
had been wielding fell to the cobbles, then Tracy was helping Gus lower
the unconscious man to the ground as well.

“I am glad you are here, Washington,” said he, and from a man of his

professional caliber this was reward enough. “That was a blow well struck
and my men will have him before he regains consciousness. They will be
closing in now to cut off all means of escape by the criminals, while fast
launches will prevent flight by sea. The final act of this drama is about to
be played. You were correct in your deductions, for I have checked my
direction finder. Billygoat is aboard that ship. Now here we go.”

Silent as a wraith he drifted forward, with Gus a few paces behind.

They passed under the counter of the ship and her name could now be
seen, picked out in rusty letters across the stern. Der Liebestodt, Lucerne.
Swiss registry, a flag of convenience obviously, with the real names and
nationality of the true owners well concealed. But not much longer. All was
silent on the deck above, the ship darkened except for that single bulb at
the entranceway. Tracy walked forward steadily as though he belonged
here and mounted the gangway, with Gus not too far behind. Yet, quiet as
he was, he was not unobserved, for when he reached the deck a man
stepped out of the shadows and mumbled something inaudible to Gus who
was still on his way up. Tracy answered and pointed down and, as soon as
the man had turned, the operative’s hands struck and did something to
the other’s neck that kept him rigid for long moments before he folded and
fell to the deck.

There was still no alarm, and Gus could not believe it. They had

boarded the ship, rendered two men unconscious, and their presence was
still unknown. Their luck seemed too good to last and he hoped that would
not prove the case. Tracy waited in the open doorway until he came up,
then whispered into his ear.

“The deckhouse is quiet and there is no one on the bridge—so the

miscreants must be below. Follow me as silently as you are able.”

With these words he pushed open the heavy iron door to disclose a

dimly lit passageway beyond, into which he drifted. The first door off the
passage was dark and he passed this opening with only a quick look, and
the next, dark and open as well. But the one that followed was closed and
he bent to peer through the keyhole, then took a doctor’s stethoscope from
his pocket and listened at the door panel with it. Satisfied, he restored it
to his pocket and waved Gus on, pointing to the stairwell at the same
time. Down this they went, slowly and carefully, and their reward was
immediate for one of the doors on this deck stood partly open and from it
emerged a bar of light and a mutter of voices. Still leading, Tracy went
forward, past another darkened doorway, with Gus close behind. As Gus
passed the same doorway a dark figure, knife clutched in hand, leaped to
the attack.

Only split-second reflexes saved his life. Gus fell back as the man hit

him, falling under the swooping slice of the weapon, clutching at the knife
arm, and rolling away with his assailant on top of him. There was a hearty
thud as they fetched up against the bulkhead opposite, the force of the
impact stunning the man for an instant, the force of Gus’s fist stunning
him more lastingly so that he sighed and went limp and the knife fell from
his hand and rang loudly on the metal deck.

In the silence that followed the voice could be clearly heard through the

open door.

“What was that? I heard something in the passageway.”

Tracy stayed himself no longer. His revolver appeared in his hand and,

as he kicked the door wide, he shouted defiantly, “This is the law and you
are all under arrest!” then sprang into the room.

There were shouts, shots, muffled screams as Gus plunged forward,

hurling himself without hesitation into the unknown fray, into a large
cabin seemingly filled with rushing men. One of them tried to escape but
Gus was in his path and a hard fist in his middle bent him double,
lowering his chin to the correct spot to connect with the other fist on its
way up. Gus plunged on into the melee and raised his arm to prevent a
blade from descending that was slashing at his throat and a red arrow of
pain shot through his biceps as the blade cut deep. But he still had a good
arm that ended in an equally good fist that dropped the attacker on the
spot.

With that the battle was over although Gus did not know it as he

struggled to his feet, ignoring the pain of his wound. Disreputable men
damaged in various ways lay sprawled about the room while Billygoat sat
astride the single conscious survivor banging his head against the deck so
that he could join his comrades in unconsciousness. Tracy moved quickly
about putting handcuffs on any that showed signs of life while Billygoat
ceased his banging and rose, dusting off his hands and pointing at a
closed door on the far side of the cabin.

“He went through there during the fracas. The Gray Man, the one in

charge.”

Tracy took in the situation in an instant and kicked a wicked looking

automatic pistol across to Billygoat who swooped it up.

“Guard the prisoners then because I want as many as possible alive.”

Even as he spoke he was hurtling across the room to smash his shoulder

into the flimsy connecting door, bursting through it with Gus, who had
tied his kerchief about his wounded arm, right behind, straightening up
and raising his gun and saying, “You will stop right there for the jig is up.”

The man he had addressed did stop what he was doing and straighten

up slowly with a sheaf of papers in his hand. He had been thrusting these
along with others of their kind into a metal wastebasket within which a
smoky fire flared. As soon as Gus was aware of this he leaped past the
Pinkerton man and kicked the basket over to stomp out the smoldering
flames. Only when this task was done did he straighten up and look at the
man they had captured, the secret protagonist at last.

He was indeed a gray man as Billygoat had said. He stood erect beside

the desk there, one fist pressed to it, the other to his chest, swaying
slightly. From toe to top he was gray, clad completely in gray from the
gray spats that covered his gray shoes, gray top coat and gray suit, of a
good cut, gray broadcloth shirt with matching gray tie, a gray fedora upon
his head and a mask of gray cloth that concealed his face except for the
pair of holes cut in the fabric through which peered a pair of gray eyes.

“Do not make a move,” Tracy ordered as the man’s hand moved

towards the desk. The gray man jerked back his hand and responded in a
strained whisper.

“There is money in the drawer here, much money to pay those outside.

It is all yours, thousands of pounds. All you must do is turn your back for a
few moments, that is all I beg of you. Let me leave—”

“You take me for a fool, sir! I am of the Pinkerton’s and in the employ of

The Transatlantic Tunnel Company, and there is no bribe in the world big
enough to tempt me to compromise my honor. You are taken and that is
the end of it. The game is up.”

At this the gray man crumpled, in such a tragic manner that Gus was

tempted to go to his aid. All semblance of power was gone now and the
figure trembled, groping behind for a chair to drop into. The professional
Pinkerton operator was as unaffected as Gus was touched, for he had
apprehended many a hardened criminal before, so that when he spoke it
was harshly.

“Now sir, you will remove that mask—or shall we do it for you?”

“No… please, no…” was the gasped answer, but it touched Tracy not.

Gun held at the ready he stepped forward, seized mask and hat in one
hand and, with a single gesture, hurled them aside. Gus gasped.

Sitting there, the mask removed, was someone he knew, someone he

would never have suspected, someone who could not possibly be in this
place at this time.

“Do you know who that is?” asked Gus.

“A hardened criminal,” Tracy responded.

“No, it can’t be, he is not. But still he is here. It is unbelievable.”

“You know him then?”

“Of course I do! That is none other than Henry Stratton, a respected

financier from Boston and a member of the New York branch of The
Transatlantic Tunnel Board of Directors.”

“Well then, it seems we have our man at last. A member of the Board of

Directors indeed! It is no wonder the criminals were privy to all your
secrets and could strike wherever they wished.”

While they spoke Stratton sat with lowered eyes, limp with exhaustion

and defeat, uncaring. However when they had finished he struggled
himself erect and a little of his old fire returned to his voice that no longer
whispered.

“I beg of you gentlemen to release me. The disgrace, my family, you

cannot understand. If I am released I promise—”

“No,” said Tracy and in his voice was the immutability of doom, the

monolithic force of destiny, so powerful that Stratton wilted again under
the irresistible assault.

“Yes, you are right, I should not ask, a last desperate attempt of a

desperate man. I am doomed and have been so since the beginning had I
but the wit to realize it.”

“But why?” Gus burst out. “What could lead you, a respected member

of the community, to such reprehensible actions?”

Stratton looked up at him slowly, then smiled a wintry smile that held

no slightest touch of humor.

“Why? I might have expected you to ask that kind of question,

Washington, since you are the sort that is never bothered by the kind of
human problems that trouble others. You are a machine for building
tunnels, that is what you are, and do not suffer from the frailties of we
mortals. You ask why? I will tell you and it is a sordid story indeed, a
progress into hell that began with but one false step.

“I am a member of the Board and have invested my all in the company.

But I was greedy and wished more, so secretly sold some stock from an
estate for which I am executor to buy more tunnel stock, meaning to
return the money as soon as the first dividends were paid. But these were
stocks in a certain shipping company, for mine is a family with old
shipping interests, and I never knew that I was being closely watched. I
was approached by—shall we say, parties in the shipping business—who
knew everything I had done. They promised to help me, and they did, so
my thefts would not be discovered, and I had but to render them certain
small services in return. I did these things, acting as a spy within the
Board for them, passing on information until I was too compromised to
back out. Then they pressed for more and more services until I ended up
where you see me now; on the one hand a respected member of the Board,
while on the other I direct the secret agency that is doing its best to

destroy the tunnel. Gad! I am glad it is at an end at last.”

“Who are these people who have done this to you,” asked Gus.

Stratton waved a weary hand in the direction of the papers scattered

about the cabin.

“It is all there, you will find out for yourself soon enough. Shipping

interests, foreign countries, all the men of power and men of evil who felt
that the tunnel would do them no good, the countries who wish England
and the Empire ill will at all times. A consortium of crime such as has
never been seen before. It is all there, my correspondence, carbon copies,
notes, directives, every bit of it for I am a thoroughly organized and
efficient New England businessman and whatever business I transact, no
matter how low, it is done in a meticulous manner. All you need is here.
With it you will be able to destroy the ring and the saboteurs forever, you
have my word on that. It will all come out, I can see that now, and my
good name will be ruined forever. Therefore, I ask you but one favor.
Gather up the papers and quit this room for a few minutes. I will not be
long. There is only the single tiny porthole so you know I cannot escape in
that manner. Please, I beg of you, as men of honor.”

“No,” said Tracy, firmly, “for you are our best witness.”

“Yes,” said Washington with the voice of command. “We have prisoners

enough outside, if it is prisoners that you are interested in. What I care
about is stopping the sabotage and exposing the fiends who are behind
it—and we have them here in these papers. Look at these names!
Respected men, powerful companies! There will be arrests and some
sliding stocks in the market and the sabotage will end once and for all. The
foreign governments can’t be touched, but their active interests can be
exposed and that will keep them in line for a good while. We have what we
need here. I insist that we grant Mr. Stratton’s request.” Tracy hesitated a
moment, then shrugged. “Justice will be served and my fee will be just the
same. If you insist—and take full responsibility for the decision.”

“I do. And I know Sir Winthrop will back me up.”

As they gathered up the papers and prepared to leave the voice of the

ruined man hissed after them. “I hate you, Washington, you and all the
things you stand for. But, for my family’s sake, I begrudgingly offer
thanks.”

Soon after the door was closed behind them a single shot broke the

stillness and after that all was silent again.

III. DANGER IIN THE DEEPS

Here, two miles beneath the surface of the Atlantic, was the realm of

eternal night; dark, silent, and still, an empty world of black water. The
surface of the ocean with its winds and weather, breaking waves, surging
currents and burgeoning life was more than ten thousand feet above. That
is where the sunlight was and the plankton, the microscopic life forms
that cannot live without it, and the small fish that graze upon these
seagoing meadows, and the larger fish that feed upon them in turn. Up
there was the sun with its energy and the oxygen that made life possible in
the ocean depths, and just as the depth increases so does the quantity of
life decrease until, a mile down, the tiny piscine monsters who dwell at
this dark level are few and far between. Strange creatures of needle teeth
and bulging eyes, with rows of lights like portholes down their sides or
hanging out in front, tiny mites of ferocity like Chiasmodon niger, just
two inches long but so voracious it swallows fish bigger than itself. But
this was the last battleground, for below there was little life and less
motion, until the bottom was reached at a depth of three miles where a
great current flows in the direction opposite to the Canary Current on the
surface above. But here it was black, empty, lifeless, still, unchanging.

Yet, can it be, is that something approaching far in the distance?

Lights, yes indeed lights, pinpoints of brightness in the endless night,
moving steadily along. A school of fish perhaps, for the lights grow more
and more numerous until they stretch away and dim out of sight. Wait,
there seem to be two different species here, smaller fish, though small only
in comparison for they are as big as blue whales, surrounding an immense
sea snake that undulates through the water with serpentine skill, a snake
with its own rows of lights down its sides that go on and on, an incredible
creature that is over a mile in length. But what is this? The snake is held
captive by the smaller fish, linked to them with strong bonds, pulled along
by them. What manner of creatures are these with hard, smooth skins,
eyeless yet with burning lights, humming and thrashing loudly as they
disturb the stillness of the deeps? No living beast at all, but metal shells
containing the only living creature that dares to enter this lifeless realm,
man, the most daring animal of all.

Ahead of all the other submarines was the Nautilus II, far mightier and

more complex than her atomized namesake, with a crew of thirty needed
to manage all the machines and devices she contained. Few of them were
needed to control the submarine, for she was as simple to operate as her
predecessor, but were there instead to manipulate the ancillary apparatus.
Steel cables ran from reels set into her keel, stretching out to the front of
the mile-long tow, controlled by automatic devices that monitored these
cables constantly, keeping them at a certain tension, letting out a length of
cable when the pressure rose too high, reeling in some when it dropped.

The information about the tension on the cables was fed along electric

wires to an enormous Brabbage computer engine that took up almost a
quarter of the space in the submarine, that received information from the
cables of every other one of the submarines as well, monitoring them all,
adjusting tension and pull so they moved as one with their immense
burden. No material wires connected the engine to the other submarines;
communication was carried on by immaterial wires of another
sort—beams of light, coherent light from the numerous lasers that studded
the hulls. These laser beams penetrated the water with ease and their
energies were modulated to carry the needed information. All went well,
all worked well, a tribute to the innate ingenuity of man that had
conceived this project in the first place, of which this was the final section.

From New York City the train tracks now sped, to dive under the

waters and rush across the ocean floor in the newly manufactured tunnel
there to enter the fracture zone that split the ocean bed, to rise up through
this into the mountains of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge where they ended at the
very tip of the canyon that bisected this ridge. On the far side of the
Atlantic a similar length of track left London and entered the tunnel there
and moved out to the Azores, to lift up briefly before diving again to the
abyssal plain, reaching next the fracture zone and the opposite edge of the
canyon. There the two tunnels ended, their blank ends facing one another
across a mile of empty water at the very edge of the Rift Valley depths that
plunged far out of sight below.

Here now, at last, swimming slowly to its destiny, came the incredible

sea snake of the mile-long tunnel that was both tunnel and bridge, an
upside-down bridge that floated, that would pull up against its supports
instead of hanging down, a steel and concrete, cunningly contrived
bridge-tunnel that did indeed undulate like a snake as it swam along. The
secret of its motion was the joints between sections, bellows-like
constructions of solid steel, steel strong enough to resist the great

pressures of the deeps, yet flexible enough to bend as needed. This was the
mighty construction that would finish the Herculean labor at last, this was
the final link in the tunnel between the continents.

It had been two long years in the building, the sections constructed at

different sites and floated to the rendezvous up the Hudson River, below
the ruined fortress of West Point, long associated with the heroic General
Benedict Arnold. Here a new form of warfare was engaged; man against
the elements, battling to conquer the endless sea. Section by section the
bridge-tunnel had been joined together and tested until the incredible
structure was completed. Then, on the ebb of the tide, it had been
submerged and floated down to the sea, the beginning of the journey that
was now reaching its final stages.

On the bridge O’Toole sat at the controls, or rather watched the

controls because the computer set the course for this submarine as well.

“There are some things that take a bit of getting used to,” said he, arms

folded so his fingers wouldn’t twitch towards the levers and buttons,
eyeing the compass suspiciously as it swung a bit then steadied. “Now I
know in theory that we are homing in on the sonar beacon at the bridge
site, and that the infernal machine back in the bilges is pointing us all that
way and running the engines and the rest, now I know that, but sure and I
do not believe it.”

“I think you do,” Gus said, smiling as he bent over the plotting table

and noted their slow but steady progress across the map. “All you want is
a little action, a fist fight or a few drinks, or something like that.”

“How you blacken the name of O’Toole!” he cried, with no sincerity at

all, but with a matching smile as well. “Though truth be known a jar of
Guinness would not be refused, I’m thinking.”

A light glowed redly on the board and his fingers rushed to the controls

and made certain adjustments. “Proximity to beacon ten miles, dead
ahead.”

“Time to begin cutting our speed. We want to be at almost zero forward

motion when we reach the canyon so we can use our maneuverability
against the current.” He called down to the computer section and issued
the needed commands.

Slower and slower the great snake drifted, taking many miles to slow

down so great was its mass. The sonar beacons, strategically placed below,
guided it to the correct spot where all forward motion ceased, where the
final drop could begin. One mile straight down, out of the still waters into
the bottom current which, slow moving as it was, still exerted a powerful
force on anything as massive as this bridge-tunnel. The flow of the current
had been carefully measured and this was one of the factors that was also
taken into consideration by the computer so that when the bridge began
the drop of the last mile it was still some miles upstream from the tunnel
site. As the giant construction fell at a regular rate it would be carried
along at a certain speed as well, theoretically to end up at the correct spot
at the correct depth.

The last fall began. Delicate pressure mechanisms in each tunnel

section admitted sea water to the ballast tanks as they drifted downwards
so that while the pressure increased the tunnel always had the same slight
positive buoyancy. Down and down and down—until at last ruddy lights
were visible below and the computer had the laser beams as more definite
navigation points. It digested this new information instantly and some of
the submarines went faster while others slowed so the bridge bent and
straightened again as it was turned slightly and aligned with the still
invisible piers in the depths.

“There they are,” Gus said, pointing at the lights now visible on the

television screen of the darkened bridge, television because the
egg-shaped, thick-walled submarines that operated at these depths dared
not have openings or ports of any kind in their hulls, so that all outside
viewing was done by electronic means, with pickups at bow and stern,
topside and in the keel. It was the keel pickup that now revealed the lights
below and ahead of them. “We are on course to five decimal places,” said
he, looking at the readout from the computer beside him.

Now the final, most delicate and most dangerous part of the mission

was about to begin. The current here flowed steadily and smoothly at a
speed of almost one and a half knots, hardly anything to speak of; if it had
been on the surface a good swimmer could have breasted it, a rowing boat
made progress in it, a fast launch ignored it. Even below the sea the
submarines paid the current scarcely any heed—when they were on their
own. But now, with their massive tow, it became their primary
consideration, for the thirty-foot thick and mile-long bridge had an
immense surface area that the current pushed against, so strongly that it

was doubtful if the united force of all the submarines could have held it
steady much less gained against its pull. Therefore the attempt to put the
bridge sections into place must be right the very first time.

In order to accomplish this the cables had to be secured on each side of

the valley at the same time and locked into place. The towing lines from
the submarines were fastened to the much more massive cables of the
bridge, each over a yard in diameter, for these served a dual function, now
being used for towing, but upon arrival they would become the permanent
mooring cables that held the bridge in the correct position. The ones from
the center section were the longest—well over a half mile in length because
they had to connect to the buttresses at each end—while the others grew
shorter and shorter the closer they came to the end. When in position this
skein of steel cable would hold the bridge inflexibly in place as its
buoyancy pulled them taut. Now it was a matter of securing them.

Below the lip of each edge of the canyon there was a great area of

smoothed rock that was illuminated brilliantly by numerous lights, for
what had to be done next had to be done by eye, the human eye, and no
automatic machines could be of aid here. Massive, monstrous anchors had
been drilled and cemented into the solid stone to hold the bridge in place,
while secured to them were hulking fittings to which would eventually be
attached the giant turnbuckles that would be used to tension the cables
correctly. But that would come later, now the cables had to be secured
quickly and easily. In order to do this, massive, spring-loaded, forged steel
jaws projected from each anchor. When a cable was pressed across one of
these sets of jaws they would be sprung .like a titanic rattrap and would
snap shut instantly, their corrugated jaws latching fast while automatic
electric motors tightened them even more. This was the plan and it had
been tested many times in training and it should work. It must work!

Down, down, down, the massive construction fell, with its attentive tugs

laboring hard, now pulling this way, now that, under the continuous
instruction of the Brabbage engine. There was almost complete silence
inside the submarines, aside from the whisper from the ventilation louvers
and the distant hum of the engines, an occasional word spoken between
the operators of the great computer. Despite the silence and the lack of
activity the air of tension was so thick inside every one of the subs that
there were those who had some difficulty in breathing, for this was it, the
irreversible decision, the unchangeable moment.

Down steadily while the brightly lit anchors below grew larger on the

screens, the bold red numbers above each of them standing out stark and
clear, and down still more with the cliff coming closer and closer. Fists
tightened and knuckles whitened as the pilots simply watched their
charges control themselves under the tutelage of the computer brain, this
waiting and watching infinitely more trying than any complex control
effort would have been. Down. Every detail of the ancient stone and the
clean sharpness of the new construction clear before them. Down.

“One and Nine attach, One and Nine attach. You are on your own!” The

voice spoke quickly and clearly over the command circuits, booming from
every speaker in every sub. This was the long awaited signal, manual
command, the first subs on their way with their cables. Ten cables at each
end of the bridge, numbers One and Two being the shortest on top of the
pier, Nine and Ten the longest because, from the center of the span, their
cables had to reach far down to the bottom of the pier. Now the two subs
each with one of the pair of the longest and shortest cables had been
released from computer command and were moving ahead on their own
to attach their cables, racing at full speed to make their hookups. As soon
as they had done this the next two subs would be sent in with their cables
during the vital two minutes during which the tunnel would be in the
right place at the right distance for hookup. Four cables were needed, on
each end to anchor the bridge-tunnel against the pressure of the current.
If these eight cables were secured the bridge would be held in place; the
computations had been exact. Once these eight were in place the
remaining mooring cables would be attached one at a time with greater
precision. But those four cables had to be fastened first, if they were not
there was no telling what disaster might occur as the bridge was swept out
of position.

Nautilus II, motors whining at full speed, led the way towards the

anchorage, O’Toole busy at last with the controls, yet even as he dived,
remembering to ease off on the keel line and tighten up on the bow line
that was fastened to the mooring cable like a spring, riding loosely until
now. The drum and motor for this line were on a spar that jutted twenty
feet from the sub’s nose and were easily visible in the forward camera.

-

Sell

before the sub had reached its goal the heavy mooring cable had been
reeled in until it was snug against the end of the spar, the orange painted
twenty-foot long section of cable just above it. This was the target area. As
long as any portion of this colored area was snagged by the waiting jaws
the hookup would be successful, for this area was well within the bending

tolerances of the bridge and the natural arc of the cable. For precise
measurements a two-foot wide black band was painted about the middle
of the orange section, the area of optimum choice.

O’Toole handled the bulky submarine with an artist’s touch, spinning it

on its beam ends so the spar pointed up and out at the waiting jaws,
taking up the weight of the cable, being forced astern for a moment, then
thrusting out—but not so fast that he rammed the pier. Up slowly,
drifting, correcting, forward, the spar like an immense guiding finger
reaching out for the target. Gus, standing behind the pilot, unconsciously
held his breath as the pier moved closer and closer until it seemed they
would ram into it.

“Got it!” O’Toole shouted with joy as the iron jaws, like a great metal

alligator, slammed crunching shut on the cable just on the black band, so
strongly they could feel the impact within the submarine. “And now clear
and we’re away.”

He pressed the two buttons that sent an electric current through the

wires inside the towing lines, a current which exploded the shackles that
secured them to the anchoring cables. The smaller lines dropped free and
the electric motors whined to run them in as the submarine backed away.

“Number Nine hooked as well.”

Gus said, looking at the scene from the keel pickup on his monitor

screen. “Numbers Two and Ten begin approach,” he ordered into the
command circuit.

At that precise moment it happened, just then at the worst possible

time for the anchoring of the bridge, a moment when success and failure
were suspended on a razor edge of seconds. But world time is a
measurement on a different scale; rather say that geologic time is
indifferent to mankind’s brief existence on the outer skin of the globe,
experiencing thousands of years, or even hundreds of thousands of years,
as the smallest unit. Pressures had been building in the Earth’s core as the
tidal flow of molten rock pressed up against the solid crust that floated
upon it, building pressure slowly but insistently, pressure that had to be
relieved for it could not be endured too long. A seam deep in the rocks
opened, a great mass shifted, stone grated on stone and the pressures were
equalized, the Earth was at rest again. A small thing in geological time,
too small to be even measured, or noticed, in comparison to the mighty

forces always at work. Yet large enough to wreak havoc to man’s work.

Inside the solid Earth there was a deep grumbling as of some immense

giant complaining and turning in his sleep, a sound so great it shook the
solid stone above and transmitted itself to the water which in turn struck
the solid steel fabric of the submarines, jarring them and tossing them
about before passing on.

“Earthquake…” Gus said, rising from the deck where he had been

thrown. “An undersea quake, just now…”

He stopped, aghast at what was happening outside, the scene so clearly

displayed on the screen. The tremors in the Earth had been passed to the
anchored cables which were bending and writhing like things alive,
sending traveling shock waves along their length to the lightly anchored
bridge above. The bridge and anchoring cables had been designed to
absorb shocks and quakes like these, but as a unit, well secured and
soundly anchored. Now the two cables were bearing all the strain that
twenty had been designed for. It was impossible; it was happening. What
damage was being wrought to the bridge! Gus dared not stop to consider,
the damage before his eyes was even greater for, harshly burdened and
overstrained, the cables were tearing from their fittings.

Terrible to see, impossible to turn away from, the heavy steel and

concrete anchors crumbling and shattering, breaking free. Pulling from
the moment’s paralysis Gus grabbed for the communicator.

“Number Two, draw or release your cable, do you hear me?”

“I can attach, I can—”

The words cut off, never finished as tragedy struck. With the two

holding cables torn loose the floating bridge above twisted and moved,
bent, floating free, dragging on the attached cables. The submarine,
Number Two that was about to attach its cable, was simply lashed
forward like a child’s toy at the end of a string and thrown against the
stony wall. It took a fraction of an instant, no more, as the pressure hull
cracked and the incredible weight of the water at this depth compressed,
destroyed, flattened the vessel in the smallest part of a second, so quickly
that her crew must have had no slightest warning of their doom. It fell
slowly, a dead weight at the end of the cable.

Gus could spend no time with concern for the dead now, for he must

think of the living, the submarines still attached to the bridge and the fate
of the bridge itself. For long seconds he forced himself to stand there, to
think logically, to consider every factor before going into action, while all
of the time the communicator roared with voices, questions, cries of
anguish. Reaching a decision he smashed down the command switch and
spoke with cold clarity into the microphone.

“Clear all communication circuits, silence, absolute silence, this is

Washington speaking and I want silence.” And he received it for within
seconds the last voice died away and as soon as it had he spoke again.
“Come in Section Two commander, give a report. We have had a quake at
this end and are not connected. What is your condition.” The response
was immediate.

“Section Two commander here. All in the green. Four cables connected,

about to go for the next two. Some tremors and movement apparent on
our lines.”

“Connect next two then suspend operations. Hold at your end for future

orders. Attention all Section One subs. We have broken free here and
cannot reconnect until bridge is in correct mode. Orders for all odd
number subs: All odd number subs, activate your disconnect charges from
cables now and proceed south, away from the bridge until out of the area
of free cables, then return over the bridge, repeat over. There will be loose
cables below. Commands now for even numbered subs: Turn north at once
and into the current, full power ahead, rise at same time to level of the
bridge. Execute.”

It was a desperate maneuver, a plan conceived in a few moments in an

attempt to master this unforeseen situation, a complicated stratagem that
had to be enacted faultlessly in the midnight deeps where every man and
every sub was separate and alone, yet interdependent. In his mind’s eye
Gus could see the bridge and he went over what must be done again in
detail and was convinced that he was attempting the only thing possible.

The floating bridge was secured to its pier at one end only, the opposite

end on the eastern cliff. With the west end unattached the current would
push against the structure, bending it down-current to the south, bending
it more and more until it broke and water flooded the air-filled tunnel
section, robbing it of its buoyancy so it would hang downward, fracturing
and being destroyed along its entire length. This could not happen!

The first thing he had to do was detach all the odd numbered subs

which, like his own vehicle, had been towing the bridge from the southern,
down-current, side. If any attempt was made to pull on the bridge with
these cable moorings from the up-current side, they would twist the
bridge as though trying to wind it up and this would destroy it as quickly
as the current. If all was going correctly the odd numbered subs would
have released their cables by now and would be fleeing up over the bridge;
Nautilus II was below the freed cables so she could swing up-current and
rise to join the subs that remained attached to their mooring cables.
These would be fighting to keep the bridge from bending, pulling in a
northerly direction with the full power of their engines. Pray they would
succeed!

As the Nautilus II churned upwards they saw a horrifying sight on their

screens, the view from their topside pickup. The row of lights on the
bridge was no longer a straight line, but had curved instead into a
monstrous letter C where the free end was being swept south by the
current. Gus took one look then immediately snapped on the command
circuit.

“To all subs that have dropped their cables: Rejoin others above who

are attempting to hold the position of the west end of the bridge, use your
magnetic grapples to secure to these subs then use full reverse power as
well. We must stop the bridge from bending, we must straighten it.”

Nautilus II led the way, nuzzling up beside one of the straining subs,

touching her, then being held fast as the powerful electromagnet on the
hull seized tight to the other. As soon as they were attached the engines
whined, louder and louder, as they sped up to full reverse revolutions. If
this helped it was not immediately visible for the bridge bent and bent
even more until the free end was pointing almost due south. The designers
had allowed for flexibility, but certainly not for this much, it would surely
break at any moment.

Yet it did not. One by one the other subs latched on to their mates and

added their power to the total effort. They could not straighten out the
frightening bend but it appeared they had it checked at last. They were
not gaining, but at least they had stopped losing. They needed more
power.

“Attention all units of Section Two. Continue attaching cables your end.

We are barely holding here. As each unit secures its cable proceed at

maximum speed to this end and grapple to another sub. We need your
help.”

It came. One after another the other submarines swam up out of the

darkness and ran their hulls against the subs already there until they
clustered together like grapes, two, three and four in a group, straining at
the cables. At first there seemed to be no result, try as hard as they could,
then—Was it happening? Was the curve shallower? It was almost
impossible to tell. Gus rubbed at his eyes as O’Toole spoke.

“Sure and I’m not the one to be making empty claims, but it’s my

feeling that we’re moving astern just the smallest amount.” No sooner
were the words from his mouth than the communicator buzzed.

“Anemone here. I am in position near the cliff face and have been

observing. Southern motion stopped. We appear now to be moving north
at a very slow, but steady, pace.”

“Thank you, Anemone,” said Gus. “Well done. Can you hear me,

Periwinkle?”

“Periwinkle here.”

“You have the heavy grappling equipment. Proceed up to the free

section of the bridge and locate the second cable on the southern side.
Repeat second cable, labeled Number Three. The first cable was anchored
but tore free. Follow this cable down to the orange marker, grapple there
and attempt to attach to mounting Number Three. Do you understand?”

“I’m on my way.”

Pulling mightily, engines flat out, the reluctant bridge was dragged

against the current until it was in the correct position, to be held there
while Periwinkle grappled cable after hanging cable and attached them.
Only when all the down-current cables had been attached did Gus allow
the cables they were tugging at to be grappled and put in position. As soon
as the first one was down and secured he permitted himself to relax, to
draw in a deep shuddering breath.

“One crew, one sub destroyed,” he said to himself as memory returned

after the endless period of effort. He was not aware of O’Toole and the
others looking at him with something resembling awe, nodding agreement

when O’Toole spoke.

“You did it, Captain Washington, you did it despite the quake. No one

else could have—but you did it. Good men died, but no one could have
prevented that. Still the bridge is in place and no more casualties. You did
it!”

IV. THE END OF THE EXPERIMENT

“You are through to Sunningdale,” the club porter said. “If you will take

it in the telephone room, sir.”

Washington nodded and hurried to the glass-doored chamber with its

leather armchair and brocade walls, The loudspeaker was built into the
wings of the chair by his head, the switch at his fingertips in the arm, the
microphone before his lips. He sat and threw the switch on.

“Are you there? Washington speaking.”

“Gus, is that you? How nice of you to call. Where are you?”

“At my club, London. Joyce, I wonder, could I ask a favor of you?”

He had met Joyce Boardman a number of times, taking her to lunch in

London when he was in town, for she still saw a good deal of Iris. Joyce,
happily married, knew how sorely he was troubled and without his asking
told him all she knew of Iris, all that had transpired since last they had
met. It was small solace, but it was something, and both of them enjoyed
these luncheons though the real reason for their meetings was never
mentioned. Now there was silence for a moment on the line before Joyce
answered, since he had asked nothing of her before.

“But of course, anything within reason, you know that.”

Now it was Gus’s turn for silence for he felt a certain embarrassment in

speaking his mind like this; he clenched his fist hard. He had to say it.

“It’s a, well, personal matter as I am sure you have guessed. You read

the papers, so you know that the tunnel is just about completed, in fact I
am in London for the final arrangements. I leave in the morning for New
York which should wind things up, the opening train coming up and all
that, but pretty well finished here. What I would like, I cannot do it

directly, I wonder—if you could arrange a meeting with Iris.”

He brought the words out in a rush and sat back; he had said it. Joyce

laughed and he felt the flush rising in his face before she hurried to
explain.

“Excuse me please, I was laughing, you know, because of the

coincidence, just too uncanny. Do you remember that first night we met,
at the Albert Hall?”

“I am sure I will never forget it.”

“Yes, I realize, but there was this speaker there, the philosopher and

scientist Dr. Judah Mendoza, the one with all the time theories, really
fascinating indeed. I’ve been to all his lectures, sometimes with Iris, and
this afternoon he will be at my home, a small soiree, along with the
medium Madame Clotilda. She doesn’t work well before large audiences so
this has been arranged. Just a few people. You’re welcome to come of
course. Two o’clock. Iris will be here as well.”

“The perfect thing, I’ll be ever grateful.”

“Tush. I can count on you then?”

“You could not keep me away!”

Gus saw nothing outside during the cab ride and the short train trip

into the countryside, for his eyes were looking inward. What could he do?
What could he say? Their futures were in the hands of Sir Isambard and
at that morning’s meeting he had seemed as crusty as ever, even with the
tunnel finished. Could he possibly change? Would he change? There were
no easy answers. It was a kindly summer day, the old houses on each side
of the curving street surrounded by a wealth of colorful blossoms replete
with bees droning about with their burdens of nectar. Weathered wood,
russet tiles, green lawns, blue sky, a perfect day, and Gus drew heart. With
the world as peaceful as this, the tunnel almost done, there must be an
understanding between them. Too many years of sacrifice had gone by
already; there had to be an end to it.

A maid showed him in when he rang and Joyce, in

.

a floorsweeping

dress, came to take his hand. “Iris will be here at any moment—come and
meet the others.”

The others were mostly women, none of whom he knew, and he

mumbled his hellos. There were two men, one of them a bearded professor
of some sort who had crumbs of food on his lapels, a thick German accent,
and bad breath. Gus quickly took his sherry and seated himself by the
other man, also an academic but one at least of whom he had heard,
Reverend Aldiss, the warden of All Souls. The warden, a tall, erect man
with an impressive nose and jaw, was having no trifle with sherry but
instead held a large whiskey in his hand. For a moment Gus wondered
what he was doing here, then remembered that in addition to his college
work the warden had no small literary reputation as the author of a
number of popular scientific romances under the nom de plume of
Argentmount Brown. These parallel-world theories were undoubtedly
meat and drink to him. They talked a bit, for the warden had a keen
interest in the tunnel and a knowledge of the technical problems involved,
listening closely and nodding while Gus explained. This ended when Iris
came in; Gus excused himself abruptly and went over to her.

“You are looking very good,” said he, which was only the truth, for the

delicate crow’s-feet in the corners of her eyes made her more attractive if
anything.

“And you, keeping well? The tunnel is approaching completion, Father

tells me. I can’t begin to explain how proud I am.”

They could say no more in this public place, though her eyes spoke a

deeper message, one of longing, of solitary days and empty nights. He
understood and they both knew that nothing had changed between them.
There was time only for a few more polite words before they were all called
in; the’séance was about to begin. The curtains had been drawn shut so
that only a half light filtered into the room. They sat in a semicircle facing
Dr. Mendoza who stood with his back to the fireplace, hands under
coattails as though seeking warmth from the cold hearth, while beside
him the rotund Madame Clotilda lay composed upon the sofa. Mendoza
coughed loudly until he had absolute silence, patted his skullcap as though
to make sure it was in place, stroked his full gray beard, which indubitably
was still there, and began.

“I see among us this day some familiar faces as well as some I do not

know, so I venture to explain some of the few things we have uncovered in
our serious delving. There is but a single alpha-node that has such a
weight of importance that it overwhelms all others in relation to this

world as we know it, and to the other world we have been attempting to
explore which is our world, one might say, as we do not know it. This
alpha-node is the miserable shepherd Martin Alhaja Gontran, killed in
1212. In this other world we examine, which I call Alpha 2, ours of course
being Alpha 1, the shepherd lived and the Moors did not win the battle of
Navas de Tolosa. A Christian country by the name of Spain came into
existence in the part of the Iberian Peninsula we know as the Iberian
Caliphate, along with a smaller Christian country called Portugal. Events
accelerate, these brawling, lusty new countries expand, send settlers to the
new worlds, fight wars there, the face of the globe changes. We look back
to England for a moment, since this is the question asked me most often,
what of England? Where were we? Did not John Cabot discover North and
South America? Where are our brave men? The answer seems to lie in this
world of Alpha 2 with a debilitating English civil war called, oddly enough,
we cannot be sure of all details, the War of the Tulips, though perhaps not,
Madame Clotilda was unsure, England not being Holland, perhaps War of
the Roses would be more exact. England’s substance was spent on internal
warfare, King Louis the Eleventh of France living to old age, involved in
English wars constantly.”

“Louis died of the pox at nineteen,” Warden ‘Aldiss muttered.

“Good thing, too.” Dr. Mendoza blew his nose on a kerchief and went

on.

“Much is not explained and today I hope we will clear up some of the

difficulties, for I will attempt to forget history and all those strange
Spanish-speaking Aztecs and Incas, most confusing indeed, and we will try
to describe the world of Alpha 2 as it is today, this year, now. Madame, if
you please.”

They looked on quietly as Dr. Mendoza made the elaborate passes and

spoke the incantations that put the medium into her trance. Madame
Clotilda sank into an easy sleep, hands clasped on her mountainous
bosom, breathing smoothly and deeply. But when the doctor attempted to
bring her into contact with the Alpha 2 world she protested, though still
remaining unconscious, her body twitching and jiggling, her head tossing
this way and that. He was firm in his endeavors and permitted no
digressing so that in the end his will conquered hers and she acquiesced.

“Speak,” he commanded, and the order could not be disobeyed. “You

ire there now in this world we know and spoke of, you can see it about you,

tell us of it, tell us of England, the world, the colonies, speak, tell us, inform
us, for we want to hear. Speak!”

She spoke, first rambling words, out of context perhaps, nonsense

syllables, then clearly she described what never had been.

“Urhhh… urrhhh… penicillin, petrochemicals, purchase tax… income

tax, sales tax, anthrax… Woolworth’s, Marks & Sparks… great ships in the
air, great cities on the ground, people everywhere. I see London, I see
Paris, I see New York, I see Moscow, I see strange things. I see armies,
warfare, killing, tons, tons, tons, tons of bombs from the air on cities and
people below, hate him, kill him, poison gas, germ warfare, napalm, bomb,
big bombs, atom bombs, hydrogen bombs, bombs dropping, men fighting
killing dying, hating, it is, it is… ARRRRRH!”

She ended with a scream and her body flopped about like a great rag

doll tossed by some invisible beast. Gus rushed forward to help but Dr.
Mendoza waved him away as a doctor appeared from the kitchen where he
had been waiting, undoubtedly in case of a seizure like this. Gus went back
to his chair and saw a startled face appear in the doorway behind. The
master of the house, Tom Boardman whom he had met once, took one
wild-eyed look at the incredible scene in his drawing room, then fled
upstairs. Mendoza was speaking again, mopping his face at the same time
with his bandanna.

“We can hear no more, Madame will not approach this area, she cannot

stand it, as we can see why instantly. Such terrible nightmare forces.
Hearing of it we are forced to some reluctant conclusions. Perhaps this
world does not exist after all, for it sounds terrible and we cannot possibly
imagine how it could have become like that, so perhaps it is just the weird
imaginings of the medium’s subconscious mind, something we must
always watch for in these investigations. We will pursue the matter
deeper, if we can, but there seems little hope of success, of possibly
contacting this world as I once hoped to. A false hope. We should be
satisfied with our own world, imperfect as it may be.”

“Are there no more details of it?” Warden Aldiss asked.

“Some; I can supply them if you wish. Perhaps they are more suitable

for a scientific romance than for reality. I for one would not enjoy living in
the world so described.”

There were murmurs of assent from all sides of the room and Gus took

the opportunity to take Iris’s hand and lead her from the room, through
the French windows and into the garden. They walked under the apple
trees, already heavy with fruit, and he banished the memory of the recent
strange experience from his mind and spoke of the matter closest to his
heart.

“Will you marry me, Iris?”

“Would that I could! But—”

“Your father?”

“He is still an ill man, he works too hard. He needs me. Perhaps when

the tunnel is done, I’ll take him away somewhere, make him retire.”

“I doubt if he will ever do that.” She nodded agreement and shook her

head helplessly. “I am afraid that I doubt it, too. Gus, dear Gus, is there to
be no future for us after all these years of waiting?”

“There has to be. I will talk to him after the inaugural run. With the

tunnel completed our differences should no longer count.”

“They will still count with Father. He is a stern man.”

“You would not leave him to marry me?”

“I cannot. I cannot seek my own happiness by injuring another.”

His logical mind agreed with her and he loved her even the more for her

words. But in his heart he could not bear the answer that would keep them
apart. Torn, unhappy, they reached out and clasped hands tightly and
looked deep into the other’s eyes. There were no tears in Iris’s eyes this
time, perhaps because they had been shed all too often before. A cloud
crossed the sun and darkness fell across them and touched deep into their
hearts as well.

V. THE WONDERFUL DAY

What a day, what a glorious day to be alive! Children present on this

day would grow old with memories they would never forget, to sit by the
fire some future evening and tell other wide-eyed children, yet unborn,

about the wonder of this day. A cheerful sun shone brightly on City Hall
Park in New York City, a cooling breeze rustled the leaves upon the trees
while children rolled hoops and ran merrily about among the slowly
promenading adults. What a microcosm of the New World this little park
had become as people flocked in for this wonderful occasion, a slice of
history revealed with the original owners there, the Lenni-Lenape Indians,
a few Dutchmen, for they had been intrepid enough to attempt a colony
here before the English overwhelmed them, Scotch and Irish who then
came to settle, as well as immigrants from all the countries of Europe.

And Indians and more Indians, Algonquins of all the five nations in

their ceremonial finery of tall feathered headdresses; Blackfeet and Crow
from the west, Pueblo and Pima from even farther west, Aztec and Inca
from the south resplendent in their multicolored feather cloaks and
ceremonial axes and war clubs—black rubber inserts replacing the deadly
volcanic glass blades, Maya as well and members of the hundreds of other
tribes and nations of South America. They strolled about, all of them,
talking and pointing and enjoying the scene, buying ice cream, tortillas,
hot dogs, tacos and hot chillies from the vendors, balloons and toys,
fireworks and flags galore. Here a dog ran barking chased by enthusiastic
boys, there the first inebriate of the day was seized by one of the blue-clad
New York’s Finest and ushered into the waiting paddy wagons. All was as
it should be and the world seemed a wonderful place. Just before the City
Hall steps the ceremonial reviewing stand had been set up, flag-draped
and gilt-laden, with the microphones for the speakers in front and a lustily
worked orchestra to the rear. Occasional political speakers had already
alluded to the greatness of the occasion and their own superlative
accomplishments, but were as little heeded, and in a sense provided the
same sort of background music, as the musicians who played
enthusiastically in between the speeches. This was of little more than
passing interest to the crowd, though of course they enjoyed the melodious
sounds, for they had come to see something else, something astonishing,
something more memorable than politicos and piccolos. A train. The
train, shining brilliantly in the sunshine. Sand had been spread right
down the middle of Broadway and sleepers laid in the sand and tracks laid
on the sleepers and not a soul had complained about the disruption of
traffic because, during the night, the train had backed slowly down these
tracks with the soldiers marching on each side to this spot to await the
dawn.

So there it was, the railings of the observation platform of the last car

close to the reviewing stand, the gleaming cars stretching away down the
tracks, glistening in the sun a deep, enameled ocean blue picked out with
white about the windows, the official tunnel colors. Resplendent on each
car in serifed and swirled gold letters was the proud legend: THE
TRANSLATLANTIC EXPRESS. Yet, fascinating as these cars were, the
crowd was gathered thickest about the engine, pressing close to the
barricades and the rigid lines of soldiers behind them, tall, strong men of
the First Territorial Guards, impressive in their knee-high boots, Sam
Browne belts, ceremonial tomahawks and busbies, bayonet tipped rifles to
the fore. What an engine this was!, sister of the mighty Dreadnought
which pulled the English section, Imperator by name and imperious in
the splendor of its sleek, sterling silver-plated outer works. It was said that
the engineer of this great machine had a doctorate from M.I.T., and he
probably did since this engine was propelled by an atomic reactor as was
Dreadnought..

Now the lucky passengers were arriving, their cars pulling up in the

cleared area on the far side of the train for boarding, all of the rich,
affluent, influential, beautiful people who had managed to obtain passage
on this inaugural run. Cheers went up from the crowd as various
prominent figures made their appearance and were ushered aboard. The
clocks in the steeple of City Hall pointed closer and closer to the hour of
departure and the excitement quickened as the final orotund syllables of
the last orations rolled across the crowd. On the observation platform of
the train the chairman of The Transatlantic Tunnel Board, Sir Winthrop,
was making an address that those close by listened to with some interest,
but which could not be heard in the rearmost reaches. Now there was a
stirring in these outer ranks and a sudden chant, building up louder and
louder until it all but drowned out the speaker.

“WASH-ING-TON!… WASHING -TON !… WASH-INGTON!”

Louder and louder until the entire audience joined in and Sir Withrop,

bowing to the public will, smiled and waved Augustine Washington
forward. Cheers echoed from the tall buildings on all sides so explosively
that the well-fed pigeons rose up in a cloud and swooped over and around
in a fluttering flock. The cheering went on, even more loudly if that were
possible, until he raised his hands over his head, and then it died away.
Now there was a real silence because they wanted to listen to him and
remember what he said for he was the man of the hour.

“Fellow Americans, this is an American day. This tunnel was dug and

drilled and built by Americans, every mile of the way to the Azores
Station. Americans died in its construction but they died in a worthy
cause for we have done something that has never been done before, built
something that never existed before, attained a victory never achieved
before. This is your tunnel, your train, your success, for without the iron
will of the American people behind it it would never have been done. I
salute you and I thank you and I bid you good-bye.”

After this there was no end to the cheering and even those closest in

could not hear a syllable of the speech by the Governor General of the
American colonies, which perhaps was no tragedy after all. When he had
done his lady stepped forward, said a few appropriate words, then broke a
bottle of champagne against the train. It was only a stentorian blast from
Imperator II whistle that brought silence at last, while those closest to the
engine clapped hands to ears. Now sounds could be heard from the
countless loudspeakers set on poles about the park, far distant sounds
echoed by similar sounds here because these were broadcast radio signals
sent directly from Paddington Station in London.

All aboard! was repeated by the conductor here, while the whistles of

trainmen echoed identically on both sides of the Atlantic. So hushed were
the people that only the train sounds could be heard now, the slamming of
doors, shouted instructions and more whistles until finally, as the hands
touched the hour, the releasing of brakes and the deep clatter of metal
sounded as the two trains slid smoothly into motion.

At this instant there was no restraining the crowd who cheered

themselves hoarse and ran after the receding train waving
enthusiastically. Washington and the other dignitaries on the train waved
back through the transparent canopy that had dropped into place over the
observation platform. The trip had begun.

As soon as the train entered the tunnel under the Hudson River, Gus

went to the bar car where he was greeted and applauded loudly and
offered a good number of drinks, one or two of which he accepted.
However as soon as they had emerged in Queens he excused himself and
went to his seat and was pleasantly surprised to find the compartment
empty; apparently the others were all in the crowded car he had just
quitted.

At that moment he was more than content to sit looking out of the

window as the little homes flashed by, then the meadows and farms of
Long Island, while his thoughts and memories moved with the same
kaleidoscopic quality. The labor done; it was hard to realize. All the men
and the hundreds of thousands of hours of grueling effort that had gone
into it, the tunnel sections and the rails, the underwater dredging, the
submarine operations, the bridge, the railhead. All done. Faces and names
swam in his memory and if he had permitted himself to be tired he would
have been possessed by the most debilitating of fatigues. But he did not
for he was buoyed up by the reality of the success. A transatlantic tunnel
at last!

With a rush of air the train dived into the tunnel mouth at

Bridgehampton and out under the shallow Atlantic. Faster and faster, just
as his thoughts went faster and faster, until they slowed and emerged in
the sunlight of the Grand Banks Station, sliding into the station with the
tubular cars of the deep-sea train section just across the platform.
Normally the passengers would just stroll across to the other train while
their containerized luggage was changed as well, a matter of a few short
minutes. But today an hour had been allowed so the people aboard this
inaugural trip could look about the artificial island.

Gus had often enough seen the docks where the fishing boats unloaded

their catch, the train yards and goods depots, so he crossed over and sat
once again by himself, still wrapped in thought, while the chattering
passengers returned and found their places, oohing at the luxurious
appointments, aahing as the pneumatic doors whooshed into place and
sealed themselves shut. Ponderous valves opened and the wheel-less train
floated forward into the long and shining steel chamber that was, in
reality, an air lock. With the door sealed and shut behind, the pumps
labored and the air was removed from around them until the entire train
hung unsuspended in a hard vacuum. Only then did the seal open at the
other end as the sleek silvery length slid into the evacuated tunnel beyond
and began to pick up speed.

There was no sensation inside the train as to how fast they were going,

which was a good thing since, as they rushed down the slope of the
Laurentian Cone, they went faster and faster until their top speed was
near 2,000 miles an hour. Since there was nothing to see outside the
passengers soon lost interest and ordered drinks and snacks from the
hurrying waiters and even broke out packs of cards for their amusement.

But Gus could see the outside landscape in his memory, the covered

trench on the ocean bed that hurtled towards the great valley of the
Oceanographic Fracture Zone and across the floating bridge at its center.
Good men had died here and now they were through the tunnel and over
the bridge and past in an instant and already beginning the climb up to
the Azores Station, to once again glide into an air lock, only this time to
have the air admitted from the outside.

Unknown to the passengers both trains had been running under the

guidance of the Brabbage computer which had apportioned certain
amounts of time for the stops at the two intermediate stations, then had
controlled train speeds as well so that now, as the American section of the
Transatlantic Express slid slowly into the station, the English section was
also approaching from the opposite direction, a beautifully timed
mid-Atlantic meeting as both braked to a stop at the same instant.

Only a brief halt was scheduled here, for a few speeches, before the

trains went their respective ways. Gus was looking out at the train
opposite and at the waving crowd in its windows, when there was a tap on
his shoulder so that he turned to face a uniformed trainman.

“If you would come with me, Captain Washington.”

There was an edge of concern to the man’s voice that Gus caught

instantly so that he nodded and rose at once, hoping that the others had
not heard; but they were too involved in the novelty and the excitement to
be very aware. The trainman led the way to the platform and Gus queried
him at once.

“Not sure, sir, something about Sir Isambard. I was told to bring you at

once.”

They hurried across to the waiting train and there was Iris who took

him by the hand and led him down the passage out of earshot of the
others.

“It’s Father. He has had another attack. And he asked to see you. The

doctor is afraid that… that…” She could not finish and the tears so proudly
held back until now burst forth.

Gus touched his handkerchief lightly to her eyes as he said, “Take me to

him.”

Sir Isambard was alone in the compartment, except for the ministering

physician, and the curtains were drawn. They let themselves in and with a
single look at the blanket-wrapped figure Gus knew that the matter was
very grave indeed. The great engineer looked smaller now, and much
older, as he lay with his eyes closed, his mouth slightly open and gasping
for air; his lips had a definite bluish tinge to them. The physician was
administering an injection to the flaccid arm and they waited until he had
done before speaking.

“Daddy,” said Iris, and could speak no more. His eyes opened slowly

and he looked at her for long seconds before speaking.

“Come in… both… come in. Doctor, I am weak… too weak…”

“It is to be expected, sir, you must realize—”

“I realize I need something to sit me up… so I can speak. An injection,

you know what I need.”

“Any stimulants at this time would be definitely contraindicated.”

“A fancy way of saying… they will kill me. Well, I’m dying anyway… keep

the machine running a bit longer is all I ask.”

It took the physician but a moment to reach a decision—then he turned

to his bag and prepared his medicines. They waited in silence while the
injections were made and a touch of color washed through the sick man’s
cheeks.

“That is much better,” said he, struggling to sit up.

“A false illusion,” the doctor insisted. “Afterwards—”

“Afterwards the afterwards,” Sir Isambard said with some of his old

manner returned. “I mean to see this inaugural run completed and I’ll do
it if I have to be carried to the end on the tips of your infernal needles.
Now clear out until we reach the Grand Banks Station where I’ll need your
aid to change trains.” He waited until the door had closed then turned to
Gus. “I have played the fool, I can see that at last.”

“Sir—”

“Do not interrupt. The tunnel is built, so our quarrels are at an end. If

they ever existed, that is. As I come closer to my Maker and that eternal
moment of truth I see that perhaps most of the troubles were caused by
my denying your ability. If so I am sorry. More important I feel that in my
selfishness I have made two others suffer, and for this I am infinitely more
sorry. At one time I believe you two wished to be wed. Do you still?” Iris
answered for them both, with a quick nod of her head, while her hand
crept out and found Gus’s. “Then so be it. Should have been done years
ago.”

“I could not leave you, Father, nor will I. It is my decision.”

“Nonsense. Marry him quick because you won’t have to worry about

caring for me much longer.”

“You won’t—!”

“Yes I will. I had better. Man can only make a fool of himself on his

deathbed, or admit he’s been a fool. After that he had better die. Now send
that physician fellow in for I need a bit more help.”

It was the mighty will inside that frail body that kept it going, for the

attack should have felled him long since. Medicine helped, as medicine
does, but it was the strong spirit that buoyed him up. At the Grand Banks
Station a stretcher was waiting and he was carried across to the other
train while the passengers were rushed in their transfer; no sightseeing
this time. Down into the tunnel again with Sir Isambard staring ahead
fixedly, as though all his will were needed for the process of breathing and
staying alive, which perhaps it was. A few minutes later the door opened
and Gus looked up, then hurriedly climbed to his feet while Iris curtsied
towards the young man who stood there.

“Please, don’t bother,” said he. “We were all concerned about Sir

Isambard. How is he?”

“As good as might be expected, Your Highness,” answered Gus.

“Fine. Captain Washington, if you have a moment my mother would

like to speak with you.”

They left together and Iris sat by her father, holding his cold hand in

both of hers until Gus returned.

“Well?” Sir Isambard asked, his eyes opening at the sound of his entry.

“A very fine woman indeed. She congratulates us all on this work. Then

she mentioned a knighthood—”

“Oh, Gus!”

“—Which I refused, saying that there was something I wished more,

something for my country. She understood completely. There has been
much talk of independence since the tunnel began and apparently the
foreign minister, Lord Amis, has been after her continually, seeing more
good in the colonies, she says, than he does in England at times. It seems
that the wheels have been working below the surface and there will be
independence for America at last!”

“Oh Gus, darling, then it has happened! What you have always

wanted.”

“Should have taken the knighthood, let the damned colonies take care

of themselves.”

Sir Isambard looked out of the window and fretted while they kissed,

long and passionately, until with a rush and a burst of light the dark
tunnel ended and the green potato fields of Long Island appeared.

“So there,” Sir Isambard said, with some satisfaction, stamping his

cane on the floor. “So there! Transatlantic tunnel, under the entire ocean.
A wonderful day.”

He closed his eyes, smiling, and never opened them again.

ENVOI

Across the verdant Cheshire countryside the churchbells sounded their

merry call and anyone hearing them could not but smile at their pleasant
sound. The church itself, an ancient graying Norman pile of Bulkeley, close
by the ancestral Brassey manor of Bulkeley Old Hall, was so surrounded by
hedge and flowers that only its tower was visible from the road. Behind it,
bordered by the color and perfume of a carefully tended rose garden, was a
small yard and here three friends stood.

“I can never thank you too much,” said Gus Washington.

“Nonsense!” Alec Durell answered. “A distinct pleasure to stand up for

you. Never been a best man before, in fact haven’t been in church for
donkey’s years. In any case, plenty of perks involved. Bit of extra leave,
more credit with my tailor for this morning suit, always needed one,
chance to kiss the bride. In fact think I’ll try that again.”

And he did while Iris’s eyes shone and she laughed aloud, a vision in

white and lace, happy as only brides can be.

“You are sure that you cannot stay for the reception?”

“Positive. Love to, of course, but duty calls. Signed off the old wombat

of the Queen Elizabeth, too much of a milk run, back and forth across the
Atlantic, might as well go under it in your tunnel like everyone else, for all
I saw of it in my engine rooms. Took up my commission again, I did,
Queen’s shilling and all that, and they were damned glad to have me.”

“Couldn’t run the R.A.F. without you,” Gus laughed.

“Too true,” he lowered his voice and looked around. “Strictly

confidential now—you read the papers of course so you know about this
spot of nastiness on the Continent. Count upon foreigners to make trouble
any time. It’s the Saxons again, almost as bad as the Prussians, this time
after the French. They have been trading shells back and forth across the
Rhine which no one cares about as long as they blow up a few pigsties and
such, but they hit one of the resort towns with the H.E., blew off the front
of the hotel. Can’t have that, British subjects staying there. Being
evacuated of course, but still. That’s what battleships are for, as someone
said.”

They walked him as far as the garden gate where, after shaking Gus’s

hand, he was presumptuous enough to kiss the bride again, something
that, surprisingly enough, none of them seemed to mind.

“I’m on the Invincible, sister ship to the old Courageous, supposed to

be identical but ten years more modern in every way. Four stokers in my
engine room so we can feed the furnaces manually if the automatic
equipment goes out. Fourteen steam turbines spinning her props, seven in
each wing. The range is a secret but it is really something, I can assure
you, plenty of armament, light and heavy machine guns, small cannon in
turrets on top of the twin tails, with two seven-inch recoilless cannon in a
turret in her nose. Just wait until she flies along the old Rhine and puts a

few bursts across their bows, they’ll think twice about shelling
Englishmen!”

He started down the lane, shoulders back in the best military manner,

then turned to wave with a most unmilitary smile at the happy couple who
stood, arms about one another, and called out.

“Meant to congratulate you on the American independence. A good

thing. Why don’t you run for President, Gus, President Washington, has
rather an odd sound but a nice one. I bet you could do it.”

Whistling, he went around the turning and out of sight.